Bounce (The Chaos AU Part 16)
by LindaO
Summary: The Numbers never stop coming. Finch and Reese work to defend the good and defeat the bad when no one is quite what they seem, while the Machine seems determined to never give them a day off. Christine Fitzgerald returns and Finch will have to cope with someone who knows "exactly everything" (almost) about him.
1. Chapter 1

Bounce - definition  
2\. Restarting a Computer  
The term "bounce" can also describe the process of rebooting or restarting a computer. For example, a workstation may need to be bounced after installing new software.

Thanks to CeeBee for the case!

Notes:

This is a continuation of the Chaos AU. There are Numbers. There will also finally be relationships moving forward. There's a fair amount of fluffy. I know that's not everybody's cup of tea, and if you want to jump off here, I understand completely.

 **Chapter 1**

 _What if she wasn't on the plane?_

John Reese stood near a column at the side of the Arrivals waiting area, out of the way, unobtrusive. His face betrayed none of the questions that churned in his mind.

The cops just on the other side of the gate had given him the once-over, seen his neat dark suit and his cap and the neatly-printed cardboard sign in his hand, decided he was a limo driver, and then ignored him. One of the other real drivers had raised an eyebrow at him, nothing more. Of the roughly two hundred arriving passengers who had passed since then, only a handful had given him more than a casual glance. None had aroused his suspicions. He waited, apparently bored, his sign down at his side.

It was easy to tell the domestic from the international arrivals. Domestic flights disgorged their passengers large group. But passing through Customs broke up the international fliers into a steady trickle. It was nearly half an hour after the Heathrow arrival was announced before the first few wandered through. They all moved with a peculiar stiff gate that indicated a long flight; most had large bags; many had non-American accents. But they arrived and departed and none of them were _her_.

Reese tapped the sign against the side of his leg.

He wasn't entirely sure she would be glad to see him.

 _Airports, Jessica._ Of course he was uneasy. Completely logical. Not about Christine at all.

The number of international passengers dwindled.

He grew more concerned.

Then the passengers with big bags stopped coming altogether and John admitted to himself that he was genuinely worried.

There were two possible explanations. The first was that Christine Fitzgerald hadn't gotten on the plane in London. She might have changed her mind about coming home at the last minute; she might simply have missed her connection. Either way, there was an easy fix. Reese had a clean passport with him. He would simply book his own ticket and go get her. He could persuade, cajole, reassure or incapacitate as needed once he got there.

But the other possibility …

… the other possibility was that Christine _had_ gotten on the flight, and somewhere between there and here, most like at the Customs gate, the government or some other enemy had taken her.

Reese eyed the two cops at the exit-only gate. They seemed like a soft target, but he knew they had a small army of back-up on hand. If Christine was somewhere in the terminal, his best chance of getting her back was when they moved her out. But he needed more information. As much information as he could get.

First and foremost, he needed to know whether she'd actually gotten on the plane. That shouldn't be hard for Finch to find out – if he didn't already know.

John reached up to touch his earpiece, then paused.

There was a couple standing in the middle of the waiting area, looking past the gate and down the concourse. They'd been there when Reese arrived. Now they were openly impatient. They looked as worried as John felt.

They were civilians. They had the luxury of not concealing their feelings.

His instinct told him to wait. John lowered his hand and paid closer attention to the couple.

They were both roughly sixty years old, and obviously married to each other. The man was mostly bald, with a neatly-trimmed fringe of black and gray. He wore khaki pants and a blue polo shirt. His wife wore a white sleeveless cotton top, a denim skirt and flat shoes. She carried a very large cloth shoulder bag. Perfectly ordinary, middle class. Apparently.

Reese never took people at face value.

"What's _taking_ her so long?" the woman complained.

John replayed the previous ten minutes in his head and realized that she'd said the same thing twice.

"You know she doesn't move very fast anymore," the man answered.

"They'll get her a wheelchair, won't they? They have wheelchairs."

"Maybe."

They both stared down the concourse.

"Or one of those carts," the woman continued. "Those golf cart things."

The man nodded.

"Maybe we should ask someone."

The man glanced around uncertainly. "In a minute."

"We can't just wait here all night." The woman turned her whole body to look around the concourse. She met Reese's eyes, then moved on. "We should ask someone to check at the gate."

"There she is."

The woman spun. "Oh God. Is that her?"

John turned his head.

There were a number of people moving around the concourse, but two caught Reese's eye immediately. They were women, very close together, their arms entwined. They walked slowly towards the waiting area.

 _Very_ slowly.

Faster arrivals parted around them and hurried past like a stream flowing around a rock. Or a turtle.

"Oh my God." The woman's voice was full of impatience. "Why didn't she get a wheelchair?"

"Peggy …" her husband said.

"We've been waiting for her for … does she even think about us waiting for her? Does she care that we're just standing out here waiting while she … why didn't she get one of those carts to bring her?"

Reese looked back at them. The man's shoulders were hunched nearly to his ears and his mouth was pressed in a tight line. He never took his eyes off the approaching women.

"You know why she did this, don't you? She doesn't want to have to tip a driver. She's just too damn cheap for that. That's it. She doesn't care how long we have to wait, as long as she doesn't have to part with a precious dollar."

"Peggy," the man answered, half-pleading.

The women were closer now. Close enough to identify. A very old woman, white-haired, thin, but with proudly straight posture. And Christine Fitzgerald, walking beside her, holding her arm.

Reese felt relief flow like cool water through his veins.

He took two steps forward and brought his sign in front of his body, though he still kept it low.

"I cannot believe this," the woman sputtered.

"You didn't have to come," the man countered. "I told you you could wait at home."

"And I never would have heard the end of it from _her_ ," she shot back. "I flew half-way around the world," she mimicked, "and you couldn't be bothered to drive out from Brooklyn to meet me."

" _Peggy_."

Behind the two women, Reese noted, a skycap dragged a fully-loaded luggage cart. Except for him and the bickering couple, no one paid the slightest attention to the two.

"She just didn't want to tip," Peggy said again. "All that money she has and she didn't want to tip someone for wheeling her out here."

Reese took several more steps toward the center of the waiting area and held his cardboard sign up in front of him.

He could see now that Christine was thinner than she had been. Her hair was barely past her shoulders; she's gotten it cut after all. She moved very slowly, keeping pace with the old woman, supporting her. Her body language, under the circumstances, didn't tell him anything.

A new wave of anxiety hit Reese. She truly might _not_ want to see him. He couldn't blame her. She'd run from him. From other things, too, but from him, undeniably. She'd flown across the ocean, she'd cut off contact, she'd …

Christine looked up, saw him, smiled politely. A guarded acknowledgement, nothing more.

John clenched his teeth, but kept his face expressionless. He raised the cardboard sign and showed her the neatly printed "Fitzgerald" on one side. Then he flipped it over to show her the back, which read "Kitten".

She grinned broadly, then quickly hid it and dropped her eyes back to the old woman at her side.

"Hmmm," Reese said to himself. She wasn't upset to see him, then, but she was keeping her response under wraps. _Curious. But play along_. He lowered his sign and resumed his at-ease posture until they were closer.

"… damn wheelchair," Peggy continued to complain, too quietly for the old woman to hear.

"Mom!" the man said. He hurried toward them. The cops stirred, but he stopped just outside the security gate.

Reese stayed where he was. The women cleared the gate. The man hugged the old woman carefully, warmly. Christine started toward Reese, but the old woman stopped her and introduced her to her son. His name was Henry, but he urged her to call him Dutch. Then they got Peggy in on the introductions, too.

"You didn't have to come out," the old woman told her. Her accent intrigued Reese; it was part Brooklyn, part Ireland, and a whole lot of travel blended together. "I know you're so busy with your … your hobbies and what not."

John could see the woman seething behind her smile. "You've come all this way, Mother Hanover. Of course I came out to meet you."

"Well, you didn't have to."

The two women hated each other, Reese decided, and probably had for decades. But they plastered smiles on and dared the other one to admit it.

Christine caught his eye and raised one humorous eyebrow, fully aware of the tension between the women. Reese gave her a brief smirk in return, but kept his distance.

"The car's just outside here," Dutch said. He settled his arm around his mother's waist and helped her toward the door.

"I don't know why you didn't have them bring you a wheelchair," Peggy added as they walked.

Reese fell in beside the skycap.

"Why would I need a wheelchair?" the old woman answered brightly. "I walk perfectly well. And Scotty helped me."

Peggy dropped back to walk beside Christine. "I am _so_ sorry," she said in a stage whisper.

"We had a wonderful visit," Christine answered, with her own grating brightness.

She had acquired, Reese noted, just the tiniest hint of an Irish lilt.

"Where are the boys?"

"We left them home," Peggy answered. "We didn't know how long we'd have to _wait_ for you."

"You left them home alone? Oh, dear."

"They're old enough, Mom," the man said desperately. "They're fine."

"I hope you left them some dinner." The old woman turned to Peggy. "You left them some dinner, didn't you?"

"We'll be home in time for dinner," the younger woman snarled. "At least I hope we will. Are _all_ of these bags yours, Mother Hanover?"

"I'm going to be here until October. Did you expect me to bring just a satchel? A little bundle on a stick like a hobo?"

"Well no, but …"

"Some of them are mine," Christine told her.

The little procession stopped at the curb, next to a newer minivan. "Here we are," Dutch said. He opened the passenger-side door. "Let me help you."

"Maybe she'd be more comfortable in the back," Peggy suggested.

"Oh, no, this is fine." The old woman turned. "Good-bye, my dear! I so enjoyed our talk!"

"Me, too." Christine moved closer and kissed the woman on the cheek. "You still have my card? Call me if you need anything at all."

"I will. And good luck with your windmills."

The old lady got into the van. Dutch shut the door.

"You can deal with the luggage," Peggy snarled. She got into the back seat.

Dutch sighed and moved to the back of the van. The skycap pushed the luggage cart to the curb beside him.

"Let me help," Reese said. He handed the cardboard sign to Christine. He and Dutch loaded two huge bags and three smaller ones into the back of the van. One carry-on and one very large suitcase remained on the cart; Christine indicated that they were hers.

"Thanks so much," the man said. He shook John's hand, then belatedly reached for his wallet. "Here, let me …"

"Give it to him," Reese said, nodding toward the skycap. "I've got everything I need."

The man turned to Christine. "I can't thank you enough …"

She shook her head. "I had a great time talking with your mother. I mean that, sincerely."

He started to say something more.

"Let's _go_!" his wife shrieked. "I'm baking in here."

"I have to go," Dutch said. He closed the hatch, slipped a bill to the porter, and hurried toward the driver's seat.

John gestured to the skycap to follow him to the town car, parked two spaces back. He walked close to Christine, still confused by her reserve. "And here we were afraid you'd try to bring home kittens," he murmured. He popped the trunk and reached for the big suitcase.

"Don't drop that," she said quickly.

Reese froze, convinced for an instant that there actually _were_ kittens in the big case.

"Kidding," she said.

John smirked and thudded the unexpectedly heavy suitcase into the trunk.

"They're in the carry-on, of course," she added, handing it to him gently.

He simply stopped and looked at her until she grinned. Then he dropped the case into the trunk with grudging chagrin.

The redcap grunted, smiled at the tip Christine handed him, and trundled away.

"No kittens?" Reese prompted.

"No kittens." She watched until the porter was out of earshot. "I could have taken a cab into town."

"Why?"

She gestured to his cap. "Aren't you working?"

"Ahhh." Reese finally understood that she'd assumed he was undercover. It felt weird that they were so out of synch. "No, I'm not working. Just goofing around." He tossed both the cap and the cardboard sign into the trunk and slammed it.

"So nobody's after us?"

"Not at the moment."

"Good." Christine threw her arms around his waist, and squeezed, hard.

John wrapped his own arms around her and held her very tightly.

It was enough, for a moment, just to hold her like that. To feel her safe and warm – and too thin – against his chest. She smelled like stale air and too many hours in the same clothes, and also of strongly floral perfume, probably the old lady's. He didn't care.

"I am so sorry," he said against her hair. "Everything I put you through that night …"

Christine looked up at him. "The night Chaos burned down?"

"Yes."

"That's all I remember about it," she said firmly. "I shot Dominic Delfino, and then Chaos burned down."

John was surprised by the pain in her eyes – not that it was there, but that she let him see it. She would have tried to hide it before. "I remember the rest," he told her quietly. He'd been out of his mind, drugged by Root, hallucinating. He'd kissed her passionately. He'd cried like a child in her arms. He'd been idiotic, nonsensical. Frightened. He'd screamed about bombs falling and enemies coming for them. And _frightening_ , too. He'd been violent, monstrous… he'd been terrified. "I wouldn't have gotten through it without you."

"Yes, you would."

Reese shook his head. He would have killed someone, or gotten himself killed, or both. He'd hit Harold and very nearly killed _him_. He could imagine much too well what might have happened if she hadn't been there, with her own specific set of skills.

"I'm sorry you remember," Christine continued. "I know that must hurt."

John swallowed. "It's okay … as long as you're okay with me."

She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, then tightened her hug again. "You're not why I left, John."

He held her. She was like Harold in this: John thought many things he'd done were unforgivable, but neither of them even thought there was anything to forgive. _Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in._ She was his home. And Harold, too.

And neither of them _had to_ take him in. They _wanted_ to. Always. No matter what.

One of the airport cops looked toward them, glanced pointedly at his watch. Another minute and he'd shoo them along. Reluctantly, Reese broke the hug and opened the passenger door. "C'mon."

She got in the car. John closed her door, gave a little wave to the cop, and got behind the wheel.

They traveled less than a hundred yards before they had to stop in traffic.

"You have two options for this evening," Reese said. "Plan A, I drive you home, go get the carry-out of your choice while you grab a shower, we eat, and I tuck you in to bed."

Christine squinted at the still-bright skyline. "Isn't it like, five o'clock?"

"Yes."

"What's Plan B?"

"Plan B, I drive you home and wait while you grab a quick shower, and then we round up Carter and Fusco and go have a big steak somewhere before I take you home and tuck you into bed."

"I thought Joss was in Hawaii."

"She got back yesterday morning."

"What about H— "

John caught two things in that sentence: That she stopped herself before she even said his name, and that she'd been going to call him Harold and not Random as she usually did. He glanced over and saw the misery on her face before she hid it.

 _Oh, really?_ "Harold?" he finished for her. "He's unavailable."

"Oh."

Just _oh_ , small and sad. _What the hell is that about?_ Reese remembered Finch that night, wearing a white t-shirt but no dress shirt or tie or waistcoat or jacket. Despite his pants and shoes, he'd seemed naked.

Something had changed between Christine and Harold that night. But in the aftermath, with Chaos a smoldering ruin and Christine emotionally the same, John had never learned exactly what.

Now, he thought, might be a good time to ask. Harold the Very Private hadn't let anything slip all summer; Christine the Newly Expressive might. But it seemed more important at the moment to put a halt to her misery. He reached into his pocket and handed her the note.

He pretended not to see how her fingers trembled as she took it.

The note had been simply folded in half when Finch handed it to him, which Reese took as permission to read it. He would have read it anyhow.

 _My Dearest Christine,_

 _I'm deeply sorry I cannot be on hand to greet you this evening. I am_ _unfortunately_ _previously committed to joining the Ingrams, together with Olivia and Mrs. & Mrs. Robert Carson Junior, for dinner. Please believe that I would much, much rather be with you. __Or anywhere else, for that matter._ _I'll join you if I'm able to make my_ _escape_ _apologies early, but that does seem unlikely. Until my liberation –_

 _HF_

"Oh," Christine said again, in a completely different tone.

"He's not going to tell them you're back," Reese assured her, "so you won't get roped in, too."

She made a thoughtful little noise and tucked the note into her shirt pocket.

John pulled forward another five car lengths before he had to stop. "You want to tell me about it?"

Christine shook her head.

"He's not upset because you left," Reese told her gently. "He was upset because you _had_ to leave, but he understood. Before I did, actually."

She looked over at him.

"Wounded introverts retreat." John shrugged. "Badly wounded introverts retreat to the other side of the world, apparently."

She ducked her head. "I'm so sorry …"

"No." He reached across and took her hand. "You did what you needed to do. I know it was hard. And I'm really proud of you."

"The running … that was good advice."

"It's always worked for me." _More or less._

Christine went quiet for a moment. Then finally, inevitably, she asked, "Is she dead?"

John didn't have to ask who she was talking about. _Root, of course_. "The government has her in custody."

Finch had said he would tell Christine about their latest encounter with Root. He thought she might be _quite upset_. John was certain she would be flat-out furious. He'd been more than willing to let his partner take the hit. But now there was this strange uneasy distance between her and Finch, and Reese changed his mind. "Short version," he said briskly, "Root took Finch again. She briefly gained full access to the Machine. Carter and I caught up with them and got Harold back safely. The government snagged Root. And the Machine is now fully autonomous."

Christine stared straight forward, motionless. Reese could hear how fast her breathing became. Traffic opened up and he focused on driving for a moment, gave her a little space.

His guilt rose fresh. Root _should_ be dead. He'd had a clear shot. At the time, with Root injured, helpless, and clearly insane, it had seemed right to let her live. But here, now, with Christine fighting down panic beside him, remembering all that Root had done to her …

Her hand remained in his. John felt suddenly like he didn't deserve it.

"You didn't call me," she finally said.

 _That_ was not the first objection he'd expected her to have. "There wasn't time."

"Harold _told_ you not to call me."

John glanced over. The expression on her face was unguarded and absolutely devastated. He squeezed her hand. "He wanted to protect you. So did I."

Christine pulled her hand away gently and folded it in her lap. "I should have been here."

 _And that's Christine_ , John thought, _right to the core_. Taking responsibility for something that she'd had nothing to do with. For John's choices, for Harold's, for all the evil that Root had instituted – Christine felt guilty because she hadn't been able to stop it.

 _Rather like someone else you know_ , Finch's voice supplied in his head.

Reese finally managed to navigate out of the airport complex. "I had the Machine in my ear," he said firmly. "I didn't need your talents. If I had, I would have called you."

"She talked to you?"

"The Machine? Yes. The virus forced it into God Mode, and both Root and I had access. It helped me find Harold."

"What did she sound like?"

"Not female. Mechanical. And terse." John nodded to himself, pleased that he'd distracted her, if only momentarily. "But it told me what I needed to know when I needed to know it. It was very precise."

"Why didn't she talk to Random?"

 _Because he was Root's captive at the time._ _Not helpful to say so._ It was a great relief to hear her call him Random again. "You'll have to ask him. But I got the feeling he didn't want to talk to it. That there was a standing order of some kind."

Christine considered. "What did you mean that the Machine is autonomous?"

"It doesn't need an Admin. It's independent." Reese frowned and steered swiftly around slower traffic. "It still gives us Numbers. Apparently it still gives the government relevant Numbers. But Harold thinks is could stop any time it wanted to. That it can re-write its own programming. And it moved itself."

"It what?"

"It had its servers shipped out, one at a time. When we got there, there was just a big empty warehouse."

"Where did it go?"

"It bought itself a dairy farm in Wisconsin. It's making small-batch artesianal cheeses."

"What?"

John grinned uneasily. "We have no idea. Neither does the government."

"They think Root can find it?"

"I suppose."

"Can she?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Reese hesitated. "Finch is sure."

Christine made an unhappy noise.

"After the twenty-four hour God Mode period, it went silent. For both of us."

"Hmmm."

He focused on driving again, giving her time to process all the new information he'd just dumped on her. His patience held for almost three minutes. "Where's your head, Kitten?"

"I should have been here," she answered without hesitation.

"Christine …"

"If anything had happened to any of you because I wasn't here …"

"You are not responsible for Root's actions."

"I'm responsible for _mine_. And I wasn't here."

Reese considered for a long moment before he spoke. "You would have made it worse."

"What?"

"She took Harold. I went after him. But if you'd been here, I'd have had to look out for you, too. And maybe she would have got to you. She knows who you are, where you are. She would not hesitate to use you to get to Finch. That hasn't changed."

"I can …" Christine stopped with a half-choked little sob.

 _I can take care of myself_ , she'd been going to say, and then, Reese knew, she'd remembered that she'd had a complete break-down.

He held his hand out. After a long moment, Christine took it. "Us in a car talking about Root again. It's like we can't get away from her."

"She's locked up," John answered firmly, "and believe me, the government is not going to let her get away. She's only in your head if you let her be."

The young woman looked out the window again, but she kept holding onto his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Samantha Groves had not eaten in two days.

She had not been particularly surprised when Shaw stopped showing up for their daily playdates. She'd anticipated that her captors would eventually make that move. She hadn't given them the satisfaction of asking where the woman was. She'd simply flopped on her bunk and tried to sleep.

When her dinner tray was delivered, Root drank the grape juice in the little plastic cup, and also the cup of water. She had not touched any of the food.

An hour later, they'd taken the tray away.

The next morning she'd ignored the food on her breakfast tray, and then on her lunch tray. As she'd expected, Shaw did not arrive in the afternoon again. She drank the water and the juice and left the food on her dinner tray untouched.

She ignored breakfast the next day. She's been terribly hungry overnight, but by morning it had begun to fade.

She stretched out on her bunk, motionless, and stared at the tiny hole in the ceiling that she was certain concealed a camera. _Can you see me?_ she thought at the Machine's eye. _Do you know I'm starving myself? Will you intervene to save me?_

 _Do you still love me?_

She listened, hoping against reason that the Machine would answer her thoughts. She remembered the thrill of that magnificent intelligence speaking in her ear. The things they could do together …

Of course there was no answer. Control and her minions had taken away any possible means for the Machine to communicate with her.

But that wouldn't matter for much longer. By withholding Shaw, Control had indicated that she was ready to move on to the next phase of their game. After weeks of stalling, finally, they were making progress.

It might be months more before she was free, but Root could be very patient. The long game could be fun. And the Machine had all the time in the world to wait for her.

"Soon," she whispered to the hole in the ceiling. "Soon I'll be with you, darling."

She smiled to herself and closed her eyes.

* * *

Susan Holsey adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder, then tucked her elbow firmly over the bag, pinning it to her side. The man walking toward her smirked; despite his ratty clothes, he probably wasn't a purse snatcher. He passed her and kept going. Susan forced herself not to look back.

She circled the memorial slowly. Her eyes scanned every uniformed officer she saw. If they happened to be looking back, she gave them a little smile. The ones in uniform weren't the ones she was worried about.

The plainclothes cops, they were her problem. She picked a few of them out from normal pedestrians in the area, but she was sure she missed some, too. Martin would have been better at spotting them. Martin had experience.

Her mouth tightened. Yes, it would have been easier with Martin. But if Martin was still around, she wouldn't be here at all. He would have talked her out of it.

 _If Martin was still around …_

The others should be arriving in the city by now. They would be coming from all over the country. Checking into the hotel for the bi-annual conference. Just a professional organization. Hydraulic engineers. Boring, unless you were one. Nothing that the government would look twice at. Why would they?

And if a group of them met up in someone's room after hours to talk all night, that wouldn't attract any attention, either.

Susan looked at the memorial again. It was lovely and simple, a deep fountain into the footprint of the Tower. The sound of the water was soothing. Names were carved into the railing all around it. Here and there people had left flowers or flags. There was a note rolled up like a scroll beside one name.

After all this, she thought, they still haven't learned.

There was too much security. She couldn't manage it. Even if she's had the equipment …

Her phone chirped with a notification. Susan glanced at the screen. Her package had been delivered to the hotel by Fedex. Signed in at the front desk. She nodded in satisfaction. She hadn't dared bring the package on the train with her. It was heavy, and its contents, not illegal at all, were still likely to raise eyebrows, require explanations. She hadn't realized that security on the train was practically non-existent. She could had tucked bags of cocaine into her coat pockets for all they cared. But anyhow, it would be just one of dozens shipped to the hotel for the conference. Just some equipment for a presentation. Nothing unusual at all.

Her presentation wouldn't be to the conference.

If she'd had more time, more money, more access, her presentation would be right here, at this memorial.

But she's seen the doorway to the fountain's mechanical room and it was not only locked but heavily guarded, by real people. There was just no way. This memorial was a target for a big organization, not a single engineer from Pennsylvania. It was frustrating, but she had to be realistic.

She could still make her point.

If she failed, the others wouldn't. Not all of them, anyhow.

She finished her second lap around the site. Then she headed back to her hotel. It was a long walk, but she didn't mind. She used the time to go over the details of her plan again, and then again.

It had to be perfect. Martin wasn't here to help her.

It was all up to her.

* * *

Reese parked in the no-parking spot in front of the fire hydrant. Christine was out of the car before the car stopped moving. He watched her scramble to the chain-link fence as he turned off the engine.

"How did you do this?" she asked when he joined her.

Her fingers curled around the links; Reese half-expected her to start climbing. He looked past the fence to the space where Chaos had stood before the fire. All signs of the cafe's destruction were gone. It had been transformed into a nearly-completed neighborhood park. "Some palms may have been greased."

"Some?"

John dialed the combination on the lock that secured the gate. "You wanna go in?"

" _Yeah_ I wanna go in."

He held the gate open for her. She stopped the minute she got both feet onto the solar sidewalk. The panels were deep blue in the just-fading light, and shimmering, as they always did. The sidewalk looked more like a stream than a walkway. "This is cool."

"Uh-huh."

"I wonder what kind of efficiency …" Her voice trailed off as she stared down at the brass marker at the side of the walk. It was small, flat, firmly set in a special concrete pad John had made for it. It read, SOLAR SIDEWALK IN MEMORY OF DOMINIC DELFINO.

"That was Fusco's idea," John said quietly, after a moment. "We can change it, if you want. Or just tear it out ..."

Christine wiped her eyes impatiently. "No. It's perfect."

"Okay."

After a long minute she looked away from the marker and moved further into the park. Reese stayed where he was and pulled out his phone. He sent a quick text to Finch – _all secure - no kittens involved_ – and then called Fusco.

While he spoke to the detective, he watched the young woman. She moved slowly over the grass, looking around as if she'd never seen this place before. That was technically true; the last time she'd been there it had been literally a heap of smoking rubble. She'd drawn up the plans for the park, but Finch had directed turning them into a reality. John wondered how the actual park compared to the vision in Christine's mind.

He put his phone away and joined her in the middle of the playground space. It was, for the moment, just cushioned ground pads and steel and concrete bases. "They should be about ready to install the equipment," he told her. "It'll just take a couple days." That was half of a lie; the playground equipment had been in storage for more than a week. They'd decided that installing it was an invitation for the neighborhood kids to climb the fence and use it. "There's one final plumbing inspection schedule for tomorrow." The park featured permanent enclosed public bathrooms; Christine, like John, had been homeless once and knew what a valuable resource that was for people on the street. "And then I think we're pretty much ready for the opening. Maybe a ribbon-cutting ceremony, with speeches?"

She gave him a well-deserved side-eye. Reese knew she'd rather give up her passwords than make a speech in public.

"Or maybe we could just take the fence down and let it be a park," he offered.

"That, please."

"Okay."

He followed her gaze up the front of the building to the wind trees on the roof. They looked like a little grove of artificial art-deco trees, with slender aluminum branches and spinning cup-shaped leaves in bright colors. Even on a calm day the leaves spun endlessly, whispering prettily as they gathered energy from the air.

"Those are gorgeous."

John had to agree. They looked more like a moving sculpture than an energy-gathering installation. Like the solar sidewalk, they combined beauty with efficiency. Plus, from a practical angle, their constant motion and soft murmur made them a perfect spot to conceal a sniper on the low roof, concealed and with a clear view of the entire park.

Christine's gaze slid down to the walk-in fountain basin at the front of the building. "Does the fountain work?"

"We did a test run the other day. It's ready to go."

She walked toward the little building that held the bathrooms and the maintenance room. It wasn't the fountain that held her attention. It was the second plaque, this one larger and mounted at the center of the wall above it.

TOMMY FITZGERALD MEMORIAL PARK

Her gait changed. She kept walking, but Reese could tell her knees were locked up. He put his arm firmly around her waist. She pressed against his side, let him guide her to the bench, and sat down.

"We can change that, too," he said quietly.

Christine shook her head.

He kept his arm around her and listened to the wind trees whisper. When she sniffed, he handed her his handkerchief.

A tiny motion at the edge of the roof caught his eye. Reese turned his head enough to look squarely at the time surveillance camera mounted there. He knew it was being monitored live. They'd triggered a notification when they'd opened the gate. He also knew that when the guard in the office at CIREI got a good look at him, he or she would stop worrying. John was on the white list.

As expected, a moment later the camera shifted back to its original position.

"Is it what you expected?"

Christine shook her head. "It's better. It's so much better. I can't believe you guys pulled this off. It's … it's …"

"Like I said, anything you want to change, we can change it."

She leaned against him. "It's perfect."

John looked around. He remembered the bar-turned-café the first time he's seen it, old and faded and yet warm and welcoming. And the last time he's seen it, a rubble-filled hole in the ground, soot and charred bricks and black water puddles. Now it was green and blue and welcoming again in a whole new way.

Children would play here. Lovers would argue and break up and make up here. Old folks would play chess. Homeless men and women would wash their faces and perhaps their clothes in privacy, with a sliver of dignity, and fill their bottles with fresh water. It wasn't perfect. It was just a little pocket of humanity. Of kindness.

Sometimes just a little kindness was enough.

Reese squeezed her shoulder. "You hungry?"

"Starving." She sounded surprised.

They walked slowly out of the park. Reese locked the gate and gave a little salute to the watcher beyond the camera. In a few days there would be a lot to watch in this park. But for tonight, all was secure. He took Christine's hand again.

 _All secure,_ John thought again, and smiled.

* * *

Joss Carter scowled when her partner's phone rang. He stepped away from the crime scene and spoke briefly, then put his phone away and came back. "Let me guess," she said, "we got another one when we're done here."

"Worse," Fusco answered. "Captain Bedlam wants to buy us dinner."

"What?"

"That's what I said."

Carter considered the two dead drug dealers sprawled on the concrete in front of her. Narcotics said they'd been partners, and it looked like they'd been facing the same direction, so someone else had killed them both. They both had handguns; one was still tucked into the dealer's waistband and the other had been drawn but not fired. She looked around. It was a wide-open parking lot. They'd let their killer walk right up to them.

"What's he need?" she asked wearily.

Fusco shook his head. "Says he's got a surprise for us. Says we'll like it."

"The surprise will be if he actually picks up the check."

"Yeah. I told him we'd call when we were done here."

Joss raised an eyebrow at him.

"He said steak," her partner explained. "It's not like I can afford steak."

Carter looked back at the dead bodies. "They trusted whoever killed them. This one didn't even have his weapon drawn."

"This neighborhood, we're never going to get any witnesses to talk."

"Maybe we don't need a witness to talk." Joss gestured toward the corner of the lot. There was a camera mounted at the top of a light pole.

"Looks old," Fusco answered. "Might not be maintained. But it's worth a try."

* * *

Shortly after they took her untouched dinner tray away, the door opened and Control stepped into the cell.

Root remained on her bunk, but turned her head to look at the woman.

"I'll let it go one more day," the woman announced. "Then we'll tie you down and force feed you."

"You can try," Root sighed.

"I know you think you're a badass," Control answered calmly. "But we do have experience with this sort of thing."

Root sat up and put her feet on the floor. "Then you know that every time you open that door, every time you let someone into this cell with me, you create an opening. And you know that sooner or later I'll find a way to exploit one of those openings."

"I don't think so. Even if you succeed in getting out of this cell you'll never make it out of the building."

"Really? And why's that? Do you people have orders to shoot to kill?" Root smirked. "They don't. They have orders to take me alive. And knowing that gives me an advantage. Because I don't care if any of _them_ survive."

"My people can handle you, Miss Groves."

"Root. My name is _Root_."

"You can eat, or we can feed you. It makes no difference to me."

Root stood up slowly. "Bring Shaw back and I'll eat."

"No."

She took a step closer. "Bring her _back_."

Control turned to face her squarely. "You seem to think that you're in charge here, Miss Groves. I can assure you that you are not."

"Then who is? Because it's sure as hell not you. Who's at the other end of the leash, Control? What _man_ is really giving the orders here?"

"You have until breakfast to decide." The woman turned and started for the door.

As she turned, Root lunged. She grabbed Control's hair with her left hand, her chin with her right, and tried to snap her neck. The older women grabbed her wrists and squeezed with surprising strength. Root twisted her right hand around and clawed at her face. She was gratified to feel her fingernails drag into flesh. But of course Control did not release her. Instead she wrenched both hands away from her and twisted.

Then guards made it into the room then. They were big and well-trained. Root put up only token resistance as they pulled her away from their boss.

There were three bleeding scratches on Control's cheek. They weren't very deep. Root made a mental note to stop trimming her nails, but she was sure her opponent would be making a similar mental note to make sure nail hygiene was maintained.

Control did not touch the wound. She took one deep breath and repeated, clearly, "You have until breakfast to decide." She half-turned toward the door.

Then she spun, faster than Root thought she could, and hit her across the face with the back of her fist.

Root sagged in the grip of the guards, genuinely surprised and a little stunned. She tasted blood.

A little smile played around the corners of Control's mouth. Then she walked out of the cell.

The guards dropped Root onto the bunk and followed their boss out. Two minutes later Root heard the air handlers kick into high gear. She felt a very cool draft sweep through the cell. Control was flexing, proving she was in charge. But Root knew she wasn't. The woman has acted exactly the way she'd expected her to. She was playing Root's game now.

She pulled the paper-based sheet off her cot and wrapped it around her shoulders. She looked up at the tiny hole again. "Soon, love. Very soon."


	3. Chapter 3

"Detectives," the maître d said as soon as he saw them, "this way, please."

Carter followed the man through the dining room. The fact that they were expected put her on edge. John was obviously up to something, and he was buttering them up; the favor must be huge. But the scent of well-cooked food surrounded them. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation. Whatever Reese wanted, she might as well hear him out on a full stomach.

The man gestured her into a private alcove at the back of the room. John stood beside the table, his hands clasped loosely in front of him and a shit-eating smirk on his face.

"This better be good," Fusco complained loudly. "This place is way out of my …"

Reese took a single step to his left.

"Shit!" Fusco said. He shouldered past Joss and wrapped Christine Fitzgerald in a bear hug.

Carter looked at Reese. "You could have told us," she said mildly.

His grin got bigger. "Where's the fun in that?"

"Shit," Fusco said again. He finally let the woman get some air. "How long you been back?"

"Couple hours. How are you?"

"I'm, uh … I'm … hey, Carter, Chrissy's back."

"Yeah, I see that." She moved in and gave the woman a hug, too, much more restrained. "You cut your hair."

Christine touched the tips of her shorter hair. "No, I _had_ somebody cut it, which is apparently an important distinction."

"It is," Reese said. "Sit, I'm starving."

"How did you even know I was thinking about cutting it?" Christine asked. She settled into the seat in the corner, and Fusco sat beside her.

John hesitated. "I met somebody who did the same thing. Cut off all her hair in a moment of darkness."

"Met _somebody_ somebody?" she asked speculatively.

"A client," he clarified. "Well, her daughter was the client. The mother used to be Agency." He smirked. "Quit almost twenty years ago, four kids and a minivan, and she has not forgotten a damn thing they taught her."

"Sounds dangerous," Fusco said over his menu. "What'd she need _you_ for?"

"She was outnumbered."

"Where do you even find these people?" John started to answer, and Fusco held his hand up quickly. "Nope, nope. I'm sure I don't really want to know."

"Good choice, Lionel."

"Can I meet her?" Christine asked.

"I hope not. But you'll probably get to meet her old partner. We kinda recruited him."

"Agency too?" Joss asked dryly.

"Retired."

"Great."

"Just what we need," Fusco grumbled. "Another psycho in a suit."

"He doesn't wear suits," Reese answered. "He looks like a handyman."

"And what, he knows ten ways to kill you with a bottle of Elmer's glue?"

"I wouldn't be surprised."

Fusco grunted. "I'm gonna need a really big steak."

"Anything you want," Reese answered.

"Does Glasses know you're back?" Lionel asked.

"He already had a date," John answered. "He's having dinner with the Ingrams and the Carsons."

"That sounds fancy," Joss said.

"Fwah-fwah," Fusco agreed. "Lobster and champagne."

Christine looked to Joss. "How was Hawaii?"

"Sun, sand, clear blue water. Cabana boys with mojitos all day long. Lots of fresh seafood. It was good."

"How'd Taylor like it?"

Carter smirked. "He met girls."

"As one does."

A waitress approached with a tray of hot appetizers; Reese had evidently ordered in them advance. "Can I get anyone a drink?" she offered.

"You have hard cider?" Christine asked.

"We do."

"That, please."

"That sounds good," Carter realized. "Me, too."

Reese ordered the same; Fusco asked for a Coke. The waitress left menus and went away.

"I thought he had a girlfriend," Fusco said absently. "Taylor." He kept sneaking looks at Christine.

"They're on a break," Joss answered. "She's overseas for the summer and they agreed that they should both explore their options."

"Options are good," Christine said.

"And you would know," John teased.

She paused, a stuffed mushroom half-way to her mouth. "Oh, damn, I missed Fleet Week, didn't I?"

They chatted and nibbled appetizers until their drinks were served and their dinners were ordered. It was very light, casual. Small talk. Christine seems a little – tentative wasn't the right word, Carter thought. Vulnerable? Correct, but not quite the word she was looking for either.

 _Convalescent_ , she finally settled on. She reminded Joss of someone who had been critically ill. The sickness had passed, but the effects still lingered. She was well enough to be out to dinner, but still delicate. Breakable.

She'd never seemed that way before.

It set both of the men on edge. Joss could feel how careful they were being. Anxious. Hyper-vigilant. They were unsettled. So was Christine.

Everyone was talking, but the air was heavy with the things that weren't being said.

The waitress brought salads and a basket of warm bread. There was barely room for all of it on the table; Carter wondered where they'd put their steaks when they arrived. But she tore off a piece of the soft brown bread anyhow. It was delicious.

"Eat," John urged Christine. He reached across the table with his fork, speared the onions off Christine's salad, and ate them. She did not object; she didn't even seem surprised.

When he'd said he thought of her as a sister, Joss thought, he'd been completely literal about it.

"You're thin as a rail," Fusco said.

Self-conscious, Christine picked at her salad. Fusco's shoulders hunched forward. Reese flexed his fingers unconsciously.

They reminded Joss suddenly of an early morning when Taylor was a baby. Her mother had come over and found Joss sitting in a rocking chair sobbing, holding her son, who was also sobbing. _I can't get him to sleep,_ she remembered crying, helpless and hopeless. _I'm so tired and I can't get him to sleep._ Her mother had taken the baby and sent her to bed. Joss woke up four hours later and found her son sleeping in his crib. When she'd asked for – demanded – the secret, her mother simply shook her head. _You were anxious because your baby was crying. Your baby was crying because you were anxious. The more he cried, the more anxious you got – and the more he cried. I wasn't anxious or crying. I just stopped the cycle._

Nobody was crying – yet – but everybody was anxious. Joss needed to break the cycle. "Did you find a place?" she asked quietly. "For your dad?"

Reese winced. Fusco frowned. But Christine looked relieved. "I found the ruin of this old watchtower, right on the coast." She brought out a post card out of her purse and showed it to Fusco.

He pointed to the card. "What are these, sheep?"

"Uh-huh. It's at the edge of a farmer's field. Just a circle of rocks in this big green field, and the wind off the sea all day long, and sheep. And squirrels and rabbits and birds. It's really pretty. Peaceful."

Fusco passed the post card across the table. It was a nice professional picture of a ruin, rugged stones stacked about five feet high in a ring, with the sea glinting behind it. John flipped the card, but it was blank except for the name of the tower and the location.

"The farmer didn't object?" Carter asked.

"He's dead," Christine said. "I talked to his wife. She's ninety. Her grandson runs the sheep. She's used to random tourists. She made me dandelion tea."

"That sounds real nice," Fusco said.

"It was awful. The tea. The lady was very nice." She shrugged. "So … that's where I left him."

"How's that feel?" Joss prompted.

"Like I'm naked," she answered with surprising bluntness. "Like I carried him around as a shield for my whole life and now I'm on my own."

"You're not," John said firmly. "You're not alone."

"I know. But I don't have _him_." Christine took a drink of cider. "I should have let him go a long time ago."

"You were hurt bad back then," Lionel said quietly. "You needed the protection."

She shrugged. "Maybe. But I didn't let him go when I outgrew him."

"We all got shells, kid. It's hard as hell to let them go. And most of them aren't as tough as yours." He gestured to John. "Well, except maybe his."

"Thanks, Lionel," Reese grunted sardonically.

Fusco smirked, but focused on Christine. "You put the shield down. That took a hell of a lot of guts. So don't go beating yourself up over taking so long to do it. You did it, that's what counts. And if it takes you a while to get used to being without it, so what? Give it a little time. You're doin' real good, kid. I'm proud of you."

Christine's eyes brimmed with tears. Fusco put his arm around her and she buried her face in his shoulder.

Joss glanced over. John was looking stiffly at the far side of the room, away from them. His lips twitched like it couldn't decide whether to smile or frown. His hand opened and closed on the table. He either wanted to punch Fusco in the mouth or kiss him there.

Carter reached over with her fork and stabbed a cherry tomato off his salad.

Reese turned to look at her. "What?" she asked innocently. She popped the morsel into her mouth and chewed it before she continued. "Aren't we doing that?"

His lips barely curved, but his eyes lit up. He exhaled, relaxed. Then he used his own fork to steal her onions, too.

"Don't even think about it," Fusco warned. He untangled himself from Christine and pulled his salad closer. "I like onions."

Carter felt the mood shift. They were back to being themselves.

The waitress arrived with steaks. In the shuffling and clearing of plates to make room, Reese managed to snitch Fusco's onions. Lionel just laughed.

They ate, and they talked. About everyone's summer. About Taylor, and his work with CIREI - the Carson-Ingram Renewable Energy Initiative. About Will and Julie Ingram, and the baby they expected before the end of the year. About Rhonda, and Lee. About cases Carter and Fusco had worked. About the massive mess that HR had left behind, and how long it would take to clean it up. About Chaos, and the park that now stood on the site.

"Thank you," Christine said to Lionel, "for the plaques. They are really nice."

He squirmed. "I wasn't really sure about the phrasing. Whether I should use 'Tommy' or 'Thomas'. We can change it …"

"It's perfect. They both are. Thank you."

"Lionel," Reese teased, "are you blushing?"

"Shut up," Fusco snarled.

"I could get used to eating like this," Joss said.

"Well, on a captain's salary," Reese said, "you could afford to get used to this."

Fusco raised his eyebrows at her. "You gonna take that job?"

Joss shook her head. "They haven't even offered it to me."

"They will," John predicted.

"I'm not sure I want it."

"Now that HR's gone, the good people can rise to the top. And you're one of them. You deserve it."

"It's a lot paperwork and glad-handing," she argued. "Where I am, I can actually help people. One-on-one."

"So who _was_ at the head of HR?" Christine asked.

"Alonzo Quinn," Carter answered. "The mayor's right-hand man."

"How'd you uncover him?"

Reese put his fork down with the thump.

"She cut a deal with Carl Elias," Fusco said in the sudden silence.

Joss watched John's lips press into a tight line. He wouldn't look at her.

"Anthony's boss."

"Scarface? Yeah."

"Huh."

"So now he's out of jail," Reese said tightly.

"And Alonzo Quinn is in," Joss countered. "And Simmons, and all his other flunkies."

"I know Simmons," Christine offered. "He scared the hell out of me. Every time I saw him."

"You know Elias?" Reese asked.

"Only by reputation."

"He's a lot more dangerous than Simmons ever was. Smarter. He plays chess at Harold's level."

"He's ruthless," Carter agreed, "but he's … honorable. He keeps his word."

Reese did meet her eyes then. She could see how upset he was, even now, at the deal she'd made with the crime boss. But he didn't comment; it was done. Instead, he looked at Christine. "And for future reference, do _not_ call Anthony Marconi for anything. You need help, you call _me_."

"You were uncon—"

He raised his chin.

"Yes, sir," Christine amended immediately.

"Good."

"So did we save room for dessert?" the waitress asked brightly.

Carter considered the third of the steak that was left on her plate. If she stopped right now …

"I know a certain dog that would be happy to take care of that," John offered. His steak was gone, but his side vegetables were largely untouched.

"Dog my ass," Lionel snapped. "You got a _partner_ who'd be happy to take care of that." He had about a quarter of his own steak left, but no potato.

"You can take the rest of mine home," Christine offered. "What do you have that's chocolate?"

"Triple-chocolate torte and chocolate mousse."

"Torte. And a double espresso."

Reese cleared his throat, glanced deliberately at his watch.

Christine sighed. "Just make that a regular coffee."

 _Because her big brother says so_ , Joss thought, and smiled. They were cute together.

"The house special tonight," the waitress offered, "is fresh strawberry crepes with fresh whipped cream."

"Oooh, damn." Christine bit her lip, undecided.

"Bring her the crepes," Reese decided for her, "and a slice of the torte in a carry-out box, please."

"Same for me," Joss said immediately.

"That," Fusco added, "only without the cake."

"Same," John said.

"Coffee all around?"

"Sure."

When she left, Reese shook her head. "Women and chocolate. I really don't get it."

"If you'd ever been married," Fusco answered, "you'd know better than to even question it."

"Wise man," Carter said.

They lingered over dessert until Christine yawned despite the coffee. "I'm sorry," she said, resting her head on Fusco's shoulder. "It's been kind of a long day."

Reese brought a black credit card out of his pocket and waved it at the waitress before she could produce their check. She took it and trotted away.

"I'll be damned," Fusco said. "he actually bought us dinner."

"Miracles do happen," Carter agreed.

John snorted, only mildly offended. "Yeah, see if I do it again."

"Why don't you take Scotty home?" Joss asked Lionel. "John can run me back to the precinct to get my car."

Lionel looked surprised, then gave her a grateful little smile. "Sure. You ready?"

Of course there was more chatter, and Christine had to hug them all before she got into the car. Joss watched them drive away, then turned back to Reese. "Where you parked?"

He nodded toward the end of the block. "Something on your mind, Detective?" he asked as they walked.

"It kinda felt like they had things they needed to say without an audience."

"I suppose."

"What's on _your_ mind, John?" Carter prompted.

"Not a thing."

"Your girl's home safe. We had a really good dinner – thank you again, by the way. Nobody's trying to shoot you at the moment. So how come you're using one-syllable words?"

He shook his head, his lips so tight they all but disappeared.

"She was unarmed," Joss said, "and injured. And crazy."

Reese looked at her. He knew perfect well who she was talking about, and she'd been right about who he was thinking about: _Root._ "And the next time we see her, she'll most likely be armed and uninjured and still crazy."

"You think she can get away from them? The government?"

"I think," John answered, "that the government thinks she can lead them to the Machine. And sooner or later they'll get cute and let her escape so they can follow her."

"Wouldn't the Machine warn you?"

John shrugged. "Maybe. But she'd be relevant to national interest – so maybe it would just tell the government. I don't know. I just know that I had the chance to kill her and I didn't do it."

"She was _unarmed_ , John," Carter retreated.

"I've killed unarmed people before."

"Before. That was who you were before. That's not who you are _now_."

His mouth twitched, undecided again. "Maybe it's who I needed to be for a little longer. Killing one more person – it wouldn't have mattered much to me."

"Yes, it would."

Reese stopped next to his car. "Kara Stanton used to say no good deed goes unpunished. That any time you don't complete a mission, no matter what the reason, there'd be a price. I wanted to think …" He paused. "If there's a price for this, for letting Root live, I'm more than willing to pay it. But I'm afraid that it won't be me. That it will be one of you. Christine. Or Finch."

"John." Joss took his arm. "I was there, too, remember? I had a weapon. I could have killed her. I didn't."

He smiled tightly. "That's _never_ been who _you_ are, Joss."

"She poisoned my son. She ruined his prom night. She put his life at risk. She put my partner's life at risk. And yours. And Finch's. And I knew she was never going to face any kind of trial. Maybe I should have killed her. _Probably_ I should have killed her." She squeezed his arm. "But we didn't. And right now she's in custody and we're all here, and we're all safe. So stop. Stop beating yourself up, stop second-guessing. Stop worrying about something that may never happen. Your kid sister's home. She's all in one piece. Let yourself be happy about that. At least for tonight."

It took a long moment, but she finally felt his muscles relax under her hand. "I suppose," he said, very softly.

"You suppose I'm right?" she prompted gently.

He smiled briefly, wryly. "I suppose you're right."

"Good."

Reese sighed. "Thanks, Joss."

She smiled and squeezed his arm one more time before she let go. "Feed me steak and I'm just a fount of wisdom."

"I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

With all the relevant Numbers currently under control, the entire Research team had gone out to dinner together. They'd eaten at a Japanese hibachi place that was equal parts dining and entertainment. The food was excellent, the table-side theatrics were diverting, and the chance to spend a few hours out of their dour den was priceless.

The team was surprised when they got back to the hotel without any of them being summoned to work. They walked through the garish, tacky lobby of the pseudo-Western style resort together. For once it was blessedly free of teenage tourists. The hotel was an affordable spot for 8th grade class tours to Washington, D.C. and they got groups from all over the country. Summer had given them all a blessed lull in that regard, too.

"See you in the morning," Poole called as they split off toward their individual rooms.

"If we're lucky," his second-in-command answered. "Otherwise we'll see you in twenty minutes."

Nick Malone – who had started his life as Nicholas Donnelly – nodded grimly and went to his room. He knew as well as the others that it was absolutely uncertain: They might get a good night's sleep, or they might be summoned to work at any moment. It all depended on the processes of a massively powerful, all-seeing computer system that they called a dozen different names.

But none of them knew that he could speak to her directly.

He closed and locked his door, and tossed his phone and key card onto the table. "Asena? Everything okay?"

His computer chirped once.

Curious, Donnelly sat down at his desk and read the message on the screen.

NO CURRENT RELEVANT THREATS

"Good," he said.

TWO NON-RELEVANT EVENTS YOU SHOULD BE AWARE OF

"Okay."

After a brief pause, a surveillance camera feed appeared on the screen. There was a time stamp in the corner; the event was three hours old. He immediately recognized the cell where Samantha Groves – Root – was being held. He turned up the volume and watched and listened to her confrontation with Control.

"What's all that about?" he murmured aloud when the video ended.

At the bottom of the screen, the letters _DNO_ appeared.

Donnelly smiled grimly. "You dunno. I dunno either. Keep an eye on it for me, will you?"

The letters disappeared and were replaced by squiggles. ≈≈≈

"Did you just sigh at me?"

YES

He chuckled. "Yeah, I know, you're always watching. What I meant was, keep me in the loop, okay?"

YES

OF COURSE

"You just sighed again, didn't you?"

There was a brief pause.

YES

"What's the other thing?"

The view of the prison office dissolved slowly into cubes and then pixels. A new picture came into focus with maddening slowness. It was the front of a restaurant, Donnelly finally managed to discern. The camera was high, and the resolution was poor. It was likely a traffic cam.

People came and went. Cars passed. Then people came out of the restaurant and Donnelly sat up straighter. The faces were blurred, but the shapes were immediately familiar. One was Detective Fusco. The woman on his arm was Christine Fitzgerald.

"She's back," he whispered.

Asena did not answer.

Just behind them leaving the restaurant were Detective Carter and the ever-elusive Man in the Suit, John Reese.

He frowned, but his resentment was worn and powerless, merely habit now.

There were hugs, and then the group split up. While he watched, Fusco put the younger woman in his car and drove away.

The video ended.

Donnelly sighed himself, quietly.

YOU SHOULD REST NOW

He cocked his head at the screen. "You got something cooking, honey?"

I AM ANALYZING SEVERAL ONGOING SITUATIONS

He'd learned long ago that there was no point in trying to pry anything out of the computer until she was ready to divulge it. Sometimes the situations she was considering would prove inconsequential. The others she would bring to the attention to one of the agents in the Den.

He might get a whole night's sleep. He might get ten minutes.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

He closed the computer most of the way, but not completely, and went to bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Harold Finch moved slowly up the back stairs, keeping his footfalls silent.

The security officers on the first floor knew he was there, of course, but the residents of the second floor – Will Ingram and his wife Julie – did not. They likely assumed he'd gone home after their dinner. If they'd known he was here, they would have asked questions.

They could find out that Christine Fitzgerald was home in the morning. For tonight. Finch assumed she needed time to get settled.

He climbed to the third floor and knocked very softly on the brightly-painted steel door. When there was no response, he looked up at the tiny camera mounted above the door frame. "Alan," he said quietly, "please let Miss Fitzgerald know that I'm here."

There was a five-second pause, and then the electronic lock on the door ticked open.

"Thank you, Alan." Finch stepped inside. It wasn't necessary, he knew, to thank a computer for providing basic service. It was only responding to its programming. But Christine spoke to her system as if it were her roommate and friend, and it felt natural to Finch to treat it accordingly.

"Miss Fitzgerald?" he called as he closed the door behind him.

There was no answer.

Mildly perplexed, Finch moved further into the apartment. Her office was in the front of the building; if she was there she might not have heard him. But the computer would have announced his arrival. Perhaps she was in the bathroom, the shower. He listened, but could hear no water running. "Christine?" he called again.

He walked down the hall to the living room. It was empty; her adjoining office was dark, her computer screens shut down. He retraced his steps. The door to her bedroom stood open. A large suitcase stood at the end of the bed, and a carry-on sat on the dresser. The bed was undisturbed.

There were three neat stacks of books on the dresser, a mix of new and used, twenty-seven in all. Beside them was a postcard. Finch picked it up and turned it over, but there was no writing on it. He flipped it again and studied the picture. The ruins of a watchtower, in a grassy green field, with the ocean beyond it. There were sheep in the field. He frowned and put it back where it had been.

He allowed himself to scan the titles of the books, but he didn't let himself be distracted enough to pick one up.

The bathroom door was open; the room was empty. One of the bath towels hung neatly on the bar, visibly damp. The others were still folded on the counter.

He opened the door to peer into the large, unfinished space on the other side of the hall. She had intended to turn it into an emergency apartment for his use, and John's, but they'd convinced her that they only needed a small storage space and a back-up computer room. The vast empty space was still bare studs and an unfinished floor. It was currently empty, the only light coming in from the street lamps beyond the windows on the far wall.

Finch checked the hidden rooms, but they were unoccupied.

He tapped his earpiece as he returned to the kitchen. "Mr. Reese?"

"Hey, Finch," his partner answered immediately. "New Number?"

"Not as yet. How is Miss Fitzgerald?"

"She's … re-acclimating. Tired. I fed her a steak and let Fusco drive her home."

Despite his choice of words, Finch didn't hear undue concern in his partner's voice. "I see."

"She has enough chocolate cake to hold her until morning."

Finch opened the refrigerator. Reese had used the afternoon to restock the basics – milk, eggs, butter, apples and oranges. There was a white carry-out container on the top shelf. He peeked inside. One bite of the chocolate cake was missing.

"How was dinner with the in-laws?"

Harold sighed and closed the refrigerator. "Challenging. But necessary. And now, blessedly, behind us." He considered. "Get some rest, Mr. Reese."

"You, too."

After he clicked off the link, Finch looked toward the ceiling. "Alan, where is Miss Fitzgerald?"

"She's not here," the computer replied, in the sonorous, bored voice of actor Alan Rickman.

"But she's been here."

"Yes."

"And she went out again?"

"Obviously."

Harold pursed his lips. Programming sarcasm into a voice-responsive computer interface was tricky, but Christine had managed it painfully well. "Do you know where she went?"

"No idea."

"Thank you."

He looked around again. She wasn't here, or downstairs at the office. The park where Chaos had stood was fenced and locked up, though he supposed she could find a way in. She wasn't with John. He could think of only one other place she might be.

He drew out his phone and logged into his own security system. The library was dark; none of the entrances had been used since he'd left that afternoon.

He considered calling Reese back and admitting that they'd misplaced the young woman again. But for the moment he was curiously unalarmed. As much as he would have liked to find her here, unpacking or updating her systems, he was somehow unsurprised. Re-acclimating, John had said. Finch was suddenly fairly certain he knew where she'd gone.

If she wasn't there, he would most certainly invoke his partner's aid.

She'd gone alone, Finch reflected, because she wanted to _be_ alone. He probably should allow her that solitude, call her in the morning. Perhaps ask her to breakfast before Will and Julie latched on to her. Trust her.

But he was _mildly_ concerned for her safety. Her frame of mind.

And that, he assured himself, motivated him more than his own desire to see her.

Certainly. That was absolutely the case.

He was lying to himself and he knew it, but he set out anyhow.

* * *

The water cascaded into the footprints of the Twin Towers, gleaming under the many surrounding lights. People milled about despite the hour, some of them hushed and reverent, some indifferent, just trying to get home from late meetings. Christine stood motionless, with her back to him, both hands on the railing. She was wearing a man's shirt, white, and dark jeans, exactly as she had been the first time he'd seen her again, back when Chaos was still a café.

Her hair was shorter, cut just below her collar now.

Harold was thirty yards away when he saw her flinch. He smiled wryly to himself. He'd known she'd stolen his app. Her phone had just told her he was approaching. But she didn't turn.

Her shoulders hitched upward.

He walked closer and put his hands on the railing next to hers.

Christine glanced at his hands, but didn't look up. She took a long breath and exhaled softly.

Finch had hoped she would turn to him, that he could put his arms around her. That they could just be as they were before. But she was watchful, tense. She reminded him of a young doe at the edge of a meadow, ready to flee at the slightest sound. He'd had no right to expect anything else.

He had built a supercomputer that could anticipate a person's future behavior by observing them. But this woman, whom he had known for most of her life, eluded his understanding. He could not begin to know what she was thinking or what she might do next.

His lack of knowledge was agonizing.

"I thought I might find you here," he said quietly, carefully.

"I always come back here to reconnect." Her words were careful, too. "It's like … touching home plate."

"Who would have thought it would ever be so peaceful here?" he mused. "With so many lives lost."

"And so many begun." Christine glanced over, very briefly. Her voice remained expressionless. "No one who survived this went on with the same life. Everyone got turned in a new direction, for better or worse. Everyone began again."

"Yes. Oh, yes."

Then he didn't know what to say. The distance between them was so palpable that it hurt, and he didn't begin to know how to get past it.

 _It was easier when she was an ocean away. At least then I could pretend everything was the same._

 _Nothing was the same._

 _She'd offered to stay away. Had she hoped he'd allow her to do so?_

 _Did she think she needed his permission?_

"Did you ever go to Windows on the World?" she asked abruptly.

Finch blew out the breath he'd been trying not to hold. _A nice safe topic. Good. Unexpected, but good. Thank you._ "A few times."

"Was it wonderful?"

He shrugged. "It was really rather over-rated —"

"Lie," Christine interrupted quickly. "I want to know it was wonderful. Glamorous. Elegant."

"Oh." He smiled and lied obligingly. "It was magnificent. White linens, impeccable service, incomparable wine list. Very elegant."

"Thank you."

"You never went?"

"Kinda out of my reach at the time," she answered. "It was the elusive ivory tower in my mind. Where the very best of the best had their Very Important Lunches. Where everything was genteel and lovely." She nodded to herself. "I'm sure my vision had very little basis in reality, but it was warm to hold on to."

"I could rebuild it," Harold mused.

"What?" She finally fully looked at him.

"I could commission an exact replica," he continued. The idea caught hold of his imagination as he spoke. "Well, not quite exact, but very close. So close that you wouldn't know the difference, since you never saw the original. White linens are easy enough to come by. So is surly wait staff. Overpriced, over-cooked steaks, slightly wilted salads, pretentious businessmen wearing too much cologne … it could be done. I could recreate the entire experience for you."

Christine stared at him. "You would, wouldn't you?"

"I would," Finch promised serenely.

"Please don't," she said, in a tone which said she completely believed he _would_ if she didn't stop him. "I'm sure you could, but please, I would rather keep my fluffy warm fantasy than be jaded by the reality."

"'After a time, you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing after all as wanting,'" he quoted. "I suppose that's true of a great many things." _Like knowing everything about an elusive friend._

"No," Christine answered. "Only Vulcan wives and restaurants. Oh, and roller coasters. Roller coasters are never as cool as they looked from the ground."

It was better now. She was still distant, but it was a bridgeable gap. "What did you think I would do?" he asked carefully.

She shuddered and dropped her eyes away.

 _Or perhaps not so bridgeable after all._ "Christine. What is it? Did you think I would harm you?"

"I thought …" She stared at the water again. "I thought you'd … ghost. That you'd change your locks. Change your phone numbers. Shut me out. And if you're going to do that …" Her eyes came up, dark and haunted. "… then I'd rather be on the other side of the world."

"You thought I would abandon you because you read Nathan's journals."

"I thought … yes." Suddenly she was talking too fast. "It's a defense mechanism. Inoculation against the inevitable. I always expect the worst. People I care about go away. They always go away and I didn't want …" She shook her head. "I know better. I misjudged you. I'm sorry. I just got … scared."

Harold looked at her for a long moment. Her blue eyes were filled with contrition, but they were still bright, discerning. She could still look right through him, as she had since the first. But she was seeing what she wanted to see, rather than the truth. Willing to believe in him over her own instincts.

She was worried that she'd hurt his feelings.

It was the most generous possible interpretation. He should have expected nothing less.

He could let her go on believing in him. Let her think that he would never abandon anyone that he truly cared for. She would never know any different. But her apology cut him to the core. He couldn't accept it. She knew so much, and she had still returned to his side. He couldn't let the lie stand between them. "I know you must be tired," he said. "But I need to show you something. If you're willing."

Christine nodded, puzzled. He led her back to his car without a word.

* * *

It had been years since he'd been inside the townhouse.

It echoed weirdly them, their footsteps amplified in the empty space. Grace had left the place immaculately clean, of course, and not a single personal item remained. But Finch could hear the memories whispering around him.

Christine paced across the front room slowly, then turned. "Okay," she said, instinctively reverent, "what's here?"

"Nothing, now." Harold's heart felt like a stone in the center of his chest. Christine was standing precisely where Grace used to stand when she was painting in the morning. She'd loved the brightness of the natural light through the front windows. "I used to live here," he managed to say. "With my fiancée. Her name was Grace Hendricks. She didn't make it into Nathan's journal. I didn't tell him anything about Grace until very shortly before his death."

"Where is she now?" she asked carefully.

"She recently moved to Cape Cod. She married an artist, a photographer. Quite a gifted one. She's a painter, herself. Also quite gifted." His words sounded clipped in his own ears.

Christine stood absolutely still, attentive, waiting. The doe at the edge of the meadow again.

"I was with Nathan, at the ferry. As you must have guessed. I was with him when he died. I was badly injured. And Grace …" He took a deep breath. He wished those blue eyes would look somewhere other than straight into his soul, but of course they did not waver now. "Grace came looking for me. She found a … book. A book that she knew belonged to me, that she knew I'd had with me." He stopped again. "I hid from her. She thought I was dead. And I … let her."

Realization began to dawn on Christine's face, but with agonizing slowness. Her mind was as quick as his, but she wouldn't allow herself to understand what he was telling her.

"Nathan was going to expose the Machine. The government needed to stop him. There were agents there, right beside him, when he died. And Grace was there ... I knew … I knew they'd killed him. I knew they'd kill me and anyone with me. So to protect her, to save her life …"

She knew what he was going to say now, but the full horror was still dawning.

"So I left her," Harold continued swiftly, ruthlessly. "I loved her with all my heart. And I left her in that room, thinking I was dead. I walked away and I never looked back. She searched for my body, for a while. Then she had a memorial and set a headstone over an empty grave and she grieved and she … eventually, she moved on."

He took a step closer to Christine, and then another. She flinched and he stopped. "You wanted to apologize for misjudging me. But you haven't, Christine. I am _exactly_ the kind of coward you thought I was."

She was pale, her breathing shallow. She stared at him, her eyes bright with tears.

"Christine …"

She looked around wildly. He could see her seeing the room as it had been, full of furniture and books and Grace – and him. The happy home. The loving home.

And he had abandoned it.

 _People I care about go away._

"I need some air," she said as if she were choking. She strode to the front door and out.

The stone in the center of his chest felt heavier than ever. Harold looked around again himself. Christine had seen it. Understood it. Understood _him_. And she was running from him, just as he'd run from Grace. Leaving him before he could leave her.

He couldn't blame her. _Godspeed_ , he thought. _Run to the forest, little doe. Run and live, sweet Deirdre._

He'd forgotten, until she'd gone away to Ireland, that beloved Deirdre had died in the end. That she'd thrown herself into the abyss to save her family.

If Christine left, she would live. That was the best possible outcome.

And if it broke his heart – well, it was only a stone anyhow.

He wished he'd gotten to hug her one last time.

Finch sighed heavily. He remembered the last time he'd been in this house. The last morning, with Grace. She'd been painting. There'd been a spot of paint on her cheek, rich yellow. He'd wiped it away gently, then kissed the spot. Told her that he'd take her to dinner that night. He'd planned to introduce her to Nathan over dinner, but he hadn't mentioned that. Too many things in the air still. But he'd see her for dinner, either way …

Suddenly the room was too close, too still.

He hurried out.

Christine was sitting on the top step.

The relief hit so hard it made him gasp. He paused to close and lock the door. Then he sat down beside her, careful to leave a few inches of space between them.

She wouldn't look at him. Again. "Why did you bring me here?"

 _To scare you away_ , Finch thought. "Because I couldn't let you think better of me than I really am," he said. "I am … actually the monster you were afraid I was. I am capable of exactly the kind of cruelty you fear the most."

Christine flinched again. "You want me to go."

It wasn't a question.

Perhaps, he thought, he did. Certainly his life would be simpler if she did. "If you stay, your life is at risk. You know that."

She glanced sidelong at him, then returned to gazing out across the park. Her body was rigid.

He looked out over the park with her. How many times had he stood on the far side, looking toward this house? How many afternoons had he sat on that bench and waited for Grace to arrive or to leave? How many times had he second-guessed his choice? How many times had he considered just crossing the park and knocking on the door and …

Grace was gone. She was happy and she was safe. He would never knock on this door now.

"She never knew me," he said aloud. "Grace. She loved me, but … she never knew who I really was. What I did. Not about the Machine, not about Nathan … he was my best friend, and she never even knew his name. She never knew more than a fraction of what was going on in my head, what I was thinking about. I kept her out of everything. Kept my lives separate. I thought it would keep her safe. And in the end …"

He stopped.

"I want you to stay," he finally admitted. "I want very much for you to stay. But I recognize how selfish that is." He took a deep breath. "So if you do stay … I want you to do it with your eyes wide open. No half-truths. No illusions. No deceptions. You deserve that. At the very least."

Harold looked over at her. Christine was very still. He could see the muscles in her jaw work as she ground her back teeth. She would not look at him.

"Christine …" he finally began.

She raised her hand, just a little. "I need to think."

"All right."

She didn't move again. Harold wondered if he should leave her alone with her thoughts. He could leave the car with her, take a cab or simply walk. But to leave her alone on the street, vulnerable, seemed impolite and unwise.

He hated the whisper in his head that suggested she might go in search of heroin if he left her alone.

He waited.

There was a large clock in the park. Harold watched as the minutes ticked away. Three minutes. Five. The heat of the day seeped out of the stone stairs through his trousers. Seven minutes.

"I could …" he finally began.

Christine's hand shot out and grabbed his. Her fingers were icy despite the heat. He wrapped his around hers. She didn't turn her head, didn't speak.

He waited.

Fourteen minutes. "If I stay," she said, very quietly, very firmly, "I need to know … I need you to promise."

She turned her head. Her blue eyes caught him, pinned him, and Harold felt himself breathless in her gaze. "Promise what?"

"That you'll never do this again." She gestured vaguely toward the door behind them. "That you won't vanish on me. Send me away and I'll go. Tell me you're leaving and leave. But not this. I can't … I can't live with the doubt."

Harold covered her cold hand with both of his. "Christine …"

"The day that John or Lionel or someone I don't even know comes and tells me that you're dead … I need to not _doubt_. I need to not have any hope." She looked out over the park, then back at him. "The hope would kill me. It would destroy me."

"I can't … "

" _Please_." One word, full of desperate need.

Finch nodded. "I don't think I could survive it again. Leaving like this. I'm sure I couldn't."

"Then promise me."

"I promise." He squeezed her hand. "I promise."

Then, of course, he immediately had to amend the promise. "If they tell you I'm dead … if I'm not, I'll contact you, somehow, within forty-eight hours. If I don't … then I am truly dead."

Christine blinked. "That should have been so straight-forward."

"I am not a straight-forward man, and my life … "

"I know." She shifted enough to put her shoulder against his.

For the first time the stone in his chest seemed to soften enough to beat. "I promise," he said again.

She put her head on his shoulder, put her other hand in his.

Six more minutes passed, by the clock.

"I am so tired," Christine finally said.

"I'm sorry," Finch said sincerely. "You must be exhausted. I'll take you home."

She nodded, but neither of them moved.

"I'm glad you're staying," Harold said.

"Me, too."

She sounded like she was half asleep. He stood up, pulled her to her feet. "Come on."

He didn't let go of her hand until they got to the car.


	5. Chapter 5

"Holsey," Romine called as she crossed the hotel lobby. "Good, you're here."

Susan smiled tightly at the man. Robert Romine was the conference coordinator, and he was known to be longwinded. He did the introductions at the sessions and there was always grumbling and chuckling at the length of his speeches. "Hey."

"So, I know you were looking for a roommate," he said, "on account of the cost, and without Martin …" He hesitated. "I'm really sorry."

As if she could forget that Martin was dead, for even one moment. "It's alright."

"So anyhow, we had a late arrival and we really don't have a room for her, so I told her she could bunk with you. She'll split the cost, of course."

"Oh." Susan felt her cheeks grow hot. "Oh, Robert, I don't know, I'd kind of made up my mind to having my own space …" Let him think it was because she was missing her husband. It was a lot better than the truth – that she needed privacy to plan and assemble. "I really don't think …"

"She's, uh, she's already up there. In your room." He shrugged, not really embarrassed. "You said you needed to split the cost, so …. Anyhow, she seems like a great little gal."

"You don't even know her?"

"Hey, we're all engineers here. That makes us brothers. And, uh, sisters, of course." He half-turned away. "See you at breakfast."

"I … but …"

There wasn't any point. The only thing Robert Romine did better than talk was not listen. "Damn it," she said under her breath.

She growled, then went to the front desk and picked up her package. It was heavy; the weight reassured her. Another obstacle. Just another obstacle. She could work around this. She could. She had to.

She hoped Robert Romine choked on his own wagging tongue.

* * *

Christine was quiet on the drive. Finch glanced over at her whenever he got the chance, but her face told him nothing. She was calm, but expressionless. Tired, she'd said. She certainly had every right to be.

He turned down a side street twenty blocks sooner than he needed to. It wasn't the most direct route, but it wasn't far out of the way. "Have you seen the park?" he asked.

She nodded. "John took me on the way from the airport. It's perfect. And thank you. For all that you did to get it done."

"Thank you," he returned, "for giving me something to do."

He intended to just drive past on the way to her apartment. But Christine saw the shimmering blue walkways and turned her whole body to look, so he pulled into a parking spot instead.

"It's even prettier in the dark," she said.

Finch nodded. The solar sidewalks were attractive in the daylight, but at night, when they released all their stored energy, they looked like tropical ocean currents with luminescent sea creatures just below the surface. The light they emanated was bright but not harsh, glowing rather than glaring.

The Chaos Café, and the businesses that had stood on the spot before it, had been a source of great comfort for Christine, and also of deep trauma. This park was vastly different. But he could feel her connection to it. It was just a little piece of land, a rectangle of dirt in the center of a vast city, but it was hers.

If he ever went back to Iowa – he never could, and he didn't want to, but if he did – he imagined he'd feel the same way. Even if his father's house no longer stood on that particular patch of earth, it would be his place. The grass, the cracks in the sidewalk …

"Did you see that?" Christine asked sharply.

Finch peered through the windshield, but the park seemed quiet and unoccupied behind the tall fence. "Where?"

"There." She raised her hand. "On the roof."

He focused on the low building at the back of the park. It housed public bathrooms and a utility room. On the roof was a thicket of short metal trees with colorful spinning cups for leaves; a tiny urban wind farm that never stopped moving. "I don't see it," he admitted.

"It was … dark." She bit her bottom lip. "I don't see it now."

"Maybe an owl," Finch suggested. "Some kind of night bird."

"Maybe." She opened her door and got out of the car.

"Or a bat." He got a flashlight out of the glove box before he followed. The park was well-lit, but there were still dark corners. "Or a rodent."

She stopped at the gate, her fingers entwined in the links.

"There," she said, pointing.

Finch did see it this time: a small, black figure on four legs moved between the trees. "Rat."

"Moves wrong." She gestured toward the lock. "Do you know the combination?"

"Maybe a young raccoon." He unlocked the gate. As she pushed past it, he added, "The treatment for rabies in humans has been greatly improved, but it is still a long and painful process."

"Noted." She trotted to the back of the park and stood at the edge of the empty fountain, looking upward. "Hello?" she called.

Before Finch got to her side, there was a plaintive _meow_ from the roof directly about them.

A black kitten crouched at the front of the roof and peered down at them. It stuck one paw over the edge, then meowed again and drew back.

"Oh, dear."

"How did you get up there?" Christine asked.

The kitchen mewled in response.

"And I suppose you can't get down."

The kitten agreed.

"Oh, dear," Finch said again.

Christine moved to her right, looked around the side of the building for a way to get to the creature. Finch sighed and moved to his left. They met at the back of the building – where a construction ladder leaned against the building.

"Hey, kitty," Christine called. "Come here."

In Harold's experience with cats – specifically with Smokey – cats did not come when they were called unless there was a can opener involved. But perhaps the kitten was too young to have learned that; it appeared a few seconds later at the back edge of the roof. It was louder now, meowing frequently.

"Did you climb this ladder?" Christine asked.

The kitten answered.

"Can you climb down?"

The kitten scampered along the edge of the roof, frantic and frightened.

"Fine. I'm coming for you."

"I'll go," Finch offered half-heartedly.

Christine shook her head. "I wanted to get a better look at those trees anyhow."

He didn't see any great danger, and he had a suspicion the kitten would be more willing to come to her anyhow. He handed her the light and held the ladder.

The kitten, predictably, fled into the metal forest as soon as she stepped onto the roof.

It occurred to him, belatedly, that if she fell off this roof and broke her arm or leg or neck, Mr. Reese was going to be exceedingly cross at him. "The trees," Finch called, "are quite weather- resistant, but they are not designed for weight-bearing."

"Understood." She disappeared from his view.

Finch listened while she moved around the roof. She called to the kitten occasionally, and muttered darkly in what sounded like Russian. He could hear her changing direction frequently, moving slowly and then fast. The beam from the flashlight flashed over his head intermittently. "Perhaps I could get a net," he offered.

She said something in response, and he glad he couldn't hear it well enough to translate.

Something moved to his right. Finch turned his head and stared at the kitten at the far corner of the roof.

"He's here," he called. "On my right."

"I've got him," Christine called back, from his left.

The kitten disappeared.

"If you've got him, then there are two of them."

This time Christine answered in English. "Son of a bitch. Where?"

"It was above the right corner – my right, facing the building. It's gone now."

"Owww, shit!"

"Are you injured?" Finch worried.

"No, I'm just … quit that!"

"I'll come up and help you."

Christine came to the edge of the roof and looked down at him. "Is that camera working?" she demanded, pointing to a small device at the corner.

"Of course." She had a long red scratch that started at her chin and ran down below her collar, and she kept one arm across her stomach. "Are you hurt?"

"Get up on that and see how many kittens I'm looking for, would you?"

"I … of course." He pulled his phone out. When he looked up again, she had vanished.

"Here, kitty, kitty," he heard her call. And then, in the same gentle tone, "Come on, you stupid little shit."

There was a loud rattle, a thump, and more swearing.

Finch opened his mouth to call out again, then stopped himself when he heard more stomping on the roof. He concentrated on his phone.

It wasn't a matter of hacking the camera feed: He'd given himself clean access when he'd set up the connection. For the benefit of the CIREI staff, Finch had volunteered his company's IT department's assistance with the security set-up, but he'd done the work himself. He opened the feed, then swiped his screen to back up the time.

He didn't see the kittens the first time through. What he saw was a much larger yellow cat. It ran around the corner of the building and stopped at the bottom of the ladder. It paced back and forth, clearly agitated. It put its front paws on the bottom rung of the ladder, but didn't climb up. More pacing; there was no sound, but Finch could see its mouth open and close, its tail thrash. It remained at the bottom of the ladder for some time, but Finch scrolled back slightly before its appearance.

Because they were black, the kittens were hard to distinguish in the dim light, but on the third viewing Finch managed to pick them out of the gloom. They scrambled, terrified, into the narrow space behind the building. One climbed up the security fence, then dropped down. The second put its paws on the lowest rung of the ladder and then, apparently by instinct, started to climb. The second kitten followed just as the big yellow cat appeared.

"Shit! Random!"

He looked up quickly. There was a soft skittering sound, and then the kitten slid over the edge of the roof. Finch moved quickly to catch it, but the little creature managed to hang on by its front feet and spun around. It dangled there, mewling frantically, its back feet kicking.

Then Christine arrived. She bent down and grabbed the kitten around its middle. "Jesus, you little psycho!"

"There are only two," Finch reported breathlessly.

"Good." She dropped the thrashing, hissing kitten down the front of her shirt. "Hold the ladder."

She had pulled up her shirt so that there was a pouch above where it tucked into her jeans. The kittens squirmed like aliens beneath the fabric as she climbed down. They were captive, but could move enough to claw and bite at her bare skin, and from the way Christine flinched and tensed, Finch guessed that they were doing exactly that. "Doesn't that hurt?"

"Yes. You're sure there are only two?"

"A bigger cat chased them up there."

"A big tom will kill kittens on his turf." She arched her back, wincing. "They're strays. Skinny and pretty damn feral."

"Do you want me to find a vet? Or do we take them to a shelter?"

Christine leveled a look at him.

Finch sighed. "Are we taking them to the library or to your place?"

"My place, please."

"I don't suppose you have any food or equipment for them."

"I do not."

"We'll stop at the grocery store."

"Flea soap," Christine requested. "Definitely." She twisted as one of the kittens clawed at her side again.

"Wonderful," Finch answered drily. But the corners of his mouth twitched toward a smile.

* * *

"Hi, I'm Moira," the muscular blonde woman said as soon as Susan entered the room. "I am so sorry about Romine volunteering you to share your room without asking you first. I told him he should at least try to call you but he just talked right over me."

"He does that," Susan answered.

"I got that feeling, yeah. I've never met him before, just communicated by e-mail, it's a lot harder to interrupt someone by e-mail, isn't it? Anyhow, I really wanted to come but I couldn't really afford it unless I shared the room – holy shit, this room costs an arm and a leg and it's so _tiny_! But at least there are two actual beds. That would be so weird, us having to share a bed, wouldn't it? I mean, I'm pretty liberal and all, but you know, it would be, well, weird. So there's that. But honestly, I thought he'd asked you and then I got here and found out he'd forgotten all about it, it slipped his mind, he said – honestly, I get the feeling a lot of things slip his mind, don't you? Oh, crap, you're not a friend of his, are you? I didn't mean …"

Susan had worked with a lot of engineers. She didn't think she'd ever heard one put that many words together at once when they weren't giving a presentation. Of course, she could count the number of other female hydraulic engineers she'd met on one hand. "No, it's fine. Romine's an idiot. A loud-mouthed, pain in the ass, idiot."

"Oh, _good_. Oh, that's so good. So we're good? With this room thing? Because if you'd rather, I can … oh, well, crap, I don't know where I'll go, but I can figure something out, I'm sure one of these guys would …"

"It's fine," Susan repeated. She put the package down carefully on the chair behind her. "I could use to split the room cost, too."

"What's in the box?"

"Test pumps. Dispersal. My husband found a way to modify them. I brought some to share with our friends."

"Oh. You shipped them?"

"They weigh a ton."

Moir frowned, clearly curious. Then she moved on. "Well, good. Good." She gestured. "I took the bed by the window, but I could move my stuff if you want. I'm not particular. Whatever side you prefer …"

"No, that's okay." She hoped the woman would eventually calm down and stop talking quite so much. She'd planned to have the room to herself, to make her arrangements, but there were meeting spaces in the hotel, and Luke and Dick were sharing a room, so they could meet there if they had to.

"I've already been talking your ear off, haven't I?" Moira said. "I'm sorry, I'm just excited, this is my first trip to New York and I didn't think I was going to be able to come. _And_ to get to meet another woman – we're rare birds, you know that? Of course you know that. So, Susan, right? Where are you from?"

"Um… Pennsylvania. Outside Pittsburgh."

"Oh, that's close. Did you drive in?"

"I took the train."

"Amtrak? Nice. Oh, that way you didn't have to worry about finding a parking space, right?"

"Right."

"Good thinking."

"Where are you from?" Susan asked.

"Me? Oh. Oklahoma."

"Oh."

"Uh, outside Tulsa. Oil country, of course."

" _Earthquake_ country, now," Susan answered. "So you know about the fracking? How bad it is?"

Moira looked a little offended. "That's kind of why I'm here. To hear, you know, what everyone's saying about it. Professionally, I mean, not in the media. It's definitely a problem."

"A huge problem. The public has no idea how bad it is."

"Up your way, too?"

"Pennsylvania? It's awful. They're so close to people's homes, and out in the rural areas they just have cisterns and well water, so much of it is already contaminated …"

"And the government isn't doing a damn thing about it," Moira joined eagerly, "they're barely regulating companies …"

"Exactly. And even when people speak out, towns and counties passing ordinances and the states just overriding them because of the money …"

"… campaign contributions and tax revenue," her new roommate finished for her. "It's terrible. And no one is listening to the scientists and the engineers."

"Even when people are dying," Susan added quietly.

"Oh." For the first time Moira's voice dropped to indoor-level. "Oh, your husband, I heard about him, I'm so sorry."

"Thank you."

"That must be so hard for you. I heard you went all through school together and everything."

Susan looked at her feet. All through school was more accurate than this woman could imagine. They'd been sweethearts in third grade and never been apart. Until now.

"But his death," the woman touched her arm, "that wasn't related to fracking, was it? I heard he had cancer."

"A fast-growing and rarely-seen cancer," Susan snapped, "almost always associated with ingestion of one of the chemicals used in fracking in our area."

"Ingestion?"

"In our tap water."

"Oh, shit!" The woman's grip tightened on her arm. "Oh, Susan, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize."

Susan pulled away from her touch as gently as she could. She sat down on the nearest bed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. It's just, it's hard."

"Well sure it is." Moira sat down next to her. "Sure it is." And then, "You're not still living there, are you?"

"Can't afford to move."

"But they cleaned up the water, right?"

Susan laughed bitterly. "I don't drink it any more."

"I'm sorry." Moira shook her head. "I am so sorry." And then, in the silence, "Someone needs to do something about this."

Susan glanced at the purse. The little pumps that she'd packed so carefully. She had enough help for her plan already. But it would be easier if she included Moira, since she was her roommate.

Except that the woman couldn't seem to stop talking. And talking might get them all caught.

Still … maybe.

She straightened up. "Would you like to go down to the bar and meet some of the guys?"

Moira patted her hand. "Good girl, way to buck up. Yes, I'd love to meet some of the guys. First round's on me."

* * *

Control was almost asleep when her cell phone buzzed. She took the device off her bedside table and glared at the screen in brief annoyance, but at least it wasn't the detention facility. "Sir?"

"How's our project coming?" Garrison demanded.

 _Our_ project? Control thought. "Exactly as expected," she answered firmly. "We're right on schedule."

The man cleared his throat. "I'm going to need you to step up that schedule."

"No."

"I've got an out-of-control committee looking for places to cut the budget. If we don't have results, and soon, _you_ may be out of a job."

Control gritted her teeth, but she kept her frustration out of her voice. "Our subject is proving remarkably stubborn. But we're making progress."

"I need results by the end of the week."

"That's not possible."

"Make it possible."

"Perhaps," Control challenged calmly, " _you'd_ like to come down and meet with 'Miss May' personally, Senator."

"Get me access to the Source," Garrison growled, "or I'll find someone who can."

"If you could find someone who could, _sir,_ you wouldn't even be talking to me."

She clicked the phone off while he was still sputtering.

Control had no intention of letting the senator's irritation cause her to lose any sleep, and it did not.


	6. Chapter 6

"I think," Christine said as Finch followed her into the master bathroom, "we want to put something across the doorway to contain them for now."

He'd had the store pack the cat supplies in a medium-sized cardboard box, but it was far too small to block the doorway. He put the box on the counter and looked around. "The suitcase would work."

"Perfect." She took the bottle of flea shampoo and began to fill the sink.

"Gloves," Finch said. He opened the package of heavy housecleaning gloved he'd bought her.

"You are too good to me."

"They were cheaper than suture kits." He set the suitcase inside the door frame. It fit just a bit snugly. "You left here," he observed, "with just a carry-on."

"Retail therapy."

"Good for you." He insured that the hallway door was closed tightly. Then he began to set up the other gear while Christine bathed the first kitten. It was predictably unhappy with the process and initially tried to scratch and bite. Then it settled down and simply meowed, pitifully, loudly, and continuously.

Finch was rather glad Bear wasn't there to 'help'. The dog would have been beside himself with concern.

The only cat boxes available at the grocery store had seemed much too high for the kittens, so Finch had bought a foil baking pan instead. He unwrapped it, set it in one corner, and poured in an inch-deep layer of kitty litter. He'd purchased a set of three small pie tins as well; he set one in the opposite corner and poured in some dry kitten chow, then filled the second with water from the bathtub faucet. He'd also bought tiny expensive little cans of food, but he stacked them unopened on the counter in the third pan.

"I must say, I'm impressed with your restraint," Finch offered. "You only bought three stacks of books."

Christine smirked. "You'll be less impressed when the six boxes I had shipped show up."

"Ahhh." It pleased him that she had gathered hard-covered friends to comfort her while she'd been far from her human friends. "You're going to need more book shelves."

"Or to get rid of some." She shook her head ruefully. "Yeah, more shelves."

In the suds in the sink, Finch could see dozens of black specks as the fleas died and floated to the surface. There were also some streaks of red, but the injuries seemed minor.

The second kitten, still trapped inside Christine's shirt, was motionless and silent.

At the bottom of the box were four cheap hand towels. Finch put two at the side of the sink. "You think of everything," Christine said. She rinsed the kitten one more time, then bundled it in a towel.

"I try." He tore three of the flaps off the now-empty box, then set it on its side against the wall opposite the door. He let the remaining flap hang down so that it formed a half-open cave, and tucked the other two towels inside.

"Genius," Christine proclaimed.

Finch was not about to admit that he'd found the idea on a cat-fanciers site while trying to find a way to get Smokey off his keyboard. He merely smiled knowingly.

She put the damp bundle of towel and kitten into his hands. "Dry."

He sat down on the closed toilet and proceeded to rub the kitten down. It continued to cry out intermittently, but it also began to purr. "That's more like it." The kitten, now that he could finally get a good look at it, was entirely black, with green eyes. It was very thin, but it looked big enough that it didn't need to be bottle-fed. It appeared to be uninjured.

Christine rinsed the sink and filled it with warm water again. She reached into her shirt for the second kitten, but it proved far more elusive. Finch watched as it ran behind her back, away from her hand. When she twisted the other way, it ran back where it had come from.

"Are you laughing at me?" she demanded.

"Of course not," he chuckled. "Wait, perhaps I am. Can I help?"

She made another unsuccessful attempt to catch the animal. Then she moved closer and turned around. "Put your hand on my back."

Finch collected the fresh- bathed kitten and towel in one hand and put his other hand flat against her back over her shirt. She reached for the second kitten again. It scrambled back to where Finch's hand stopped it, and then climbed upward – Harold imagined the pain of those tiny claws on her skin again – and tried to escape out of the collar of her shirt.

Christine grabbed it with both hands. "Seriously, cat, calm the hell down!"

This kitten did not claw or bite when she put it in the water. It growled. Impressively.

Finch peered at his little charge. "Well, are you dry enough, young man?"

The kitten meowed in answer. It was still a little damp, but the room was warm. Finch unwrapped it and lowered it carefully to the floor.

The kitten shook his whole body and immediately set out to explore. It tip-toed through the cat box and scratched a little, though it did not use it. It came back to nose at Finch's shoes, and then at Christine's. It sniffed the rug and the bottom of the outer shower curtain. Then it found the food and nosed at it. Finally it found the water. The kitten lapped it up noisily. Then it stepped on the edge of the pie pan and dumped the whole pan onto himself and the floor.

"Oh, dear," Finch laughed. The kitten ran back to him, mewling hysterically. He picked it up and wrapped it in the towel again. The kitten purred as he dried its feet.

The kitten in the sink continued to growl.

Finch released his charge and used the towel to wipe up the water. "There's a glass paperweight in the office," Christine suggested. He moved the suitcase enough to sneak out without letting the kitten escape and got it. Then he refilled the water bowl and put the paperweight down in the center of it.

The kitten immediately tried to dump it again. When that failed, it tried to climb onto the paperweight without getting its paws wet.

Finally it took a couple bites of food.

Christine lifted the second, angry kitten out of the sink and wrapped it in a dry towel. The growling did not subside.

"He's got a bit of a temper," Finch observed.

"She. Brother and sister." She dried the kitten briskly. "She's shaking. Scared or mad."

"Or both." Finch shook his head sympathetically. "She's had something of a night."

Christine looked at him. "Thank you. For …" she gestured with the kitten, "indulging my whims."

 _I would gladly indulge any whims you might have,_ Finch thought unexpectedly. "I take it you're keeping them, then?"

She frowned, as if she actually had to think about it.

The kitten in her hands finally stopped growling.

"They'll need names," he continued, assuring her that he was in favor of the idea.

"Yes." She leaned down and released the second kitten from the towel. It looked around, fluffed all its fur out, and then darted into the cardboard cave Finch had assembled.

"Poor thing," Christine sighed.

"She'll come around," Finch promised, "once she gets used to being safe."

She looked at him again. He knew she wasn't thinking about the kittens. Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm so sorry …"

"Shhh, Christine …"

The loud kitten climbed up her jeans like her leg was a slender tree trunk.

"What?" she asked, plucking the kitten off her shirt before he could claw her any more.

He meowed in her face.

"I'll take him," Finch said, "and I'll keep an eye on the shy one while you go shower in the other bathroom."

Christine blinked. "I showered before I went to dinner with John."

"Of course you did." He held the flea shampoo out to her. "I'd suggest this and then at least two rounds of human soap."

"Are you suggesting that I have fleas, Random?"

"I'm fairly certain that you have fleas, sweet Dierdre. And when you're done showering, all of your clothes and all of these towels need to go directly into the washer. Now give me young Puck and go."

"Puck?" She handed him the kitten.

"A temporary appellation, until you chose a permanent one."

"I kinda like it. It certainly fits."

She took the wet towels and scooted out past the suitcase. Finch put the kitten down, waited until he was distracted with the water yet again, and then let himself out. He stood in the doorway and watched the male explore. The female stayed in the box, out of sight.

Puck looked up and meowed at him again.

"You're quite a talker, aren't you?"

The kitten meowed in agreement.

"Would you like a toy?"

The little cat cocked his head.

Finch reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the last cat gear he'd purchased – a cellophane sleeve of three ping-pong balls. They weren't technically cat toys. From his experience with Smokey, Finch had opted for items that did not contain little bells. He hoped Christine would appreciate the gesture.

He dropped the balls onto the bathroom floor. Puck gleefully tried to chase all three of them at once.

Harold smiled gently. It was foolish and sentimental. Christine had such a predictable weakness for strays. She was right that he whole-heartedly indulged her. She'd given him shelter, more than once. She'd given John shelter when his life depended on it. He would not begrudge the same to these helpless creatures.

Plus, having kittens made it somewhat harder for her to leave again.

 _She'd promised she would stay._

He closed his eyes. She'd promised she would stay. _She knew everything, and yet she would stay._

Puck ran into the little box with his sister. Then he ran out and chased the balls again. He crashed into the wall, shook himself, and went right on playing. Finch reached around the corner and switched off one of the lights, leaving the bathroom softly illuminated.

He heard movement down the hall; sounds from the kitchen and then the utility room. Soft footsteps in the hall, and then Christine joined him again.

She wore sweat pants, which he'd expected, but her sweatshirt took him by surprise. It was very old, faded navy blue, and much too large; the sleeves were rolled up several times and the body reached her upper thighs. Across the front were large, half-worn-away initials: F.B.I.

He thought immediately of Agent Donnelly, now presumed dead. But Christine had friends in many agencies and military services; it might have come from anywhere.

It seemed too warm for the weather, though the apartment's air conditioning worked at high efficiency. Finch suspected that the long sleeves covered an assortment of scratches on her forearms.

She leaned against his shoulder. Her hair was damp; she smelled like peppermint and flea soap. There were dark circles under her eyes, weariness in the fine lines around her mouth. She seemed content. He put his arm around her waist.

They watched the black kitten play. He was relentlessly cheerful.

"There we go," Finch said, very quietly.

The female kitten finally peered out from under the cardboard flap. She watched her brother for a long moment. Then she put one paw onto the floor. Another long pause, and then she walked slowly, silently, across the bathroom. She sniffed the air every step of the way. She went directly to the food and sniffed it, then went further and drank some water. Her brother happily pounced next to her and she looked at him, then returned to drinking.

Like her brother she was completely black, with green eyes. But Finch could already tell them apart, just by their bearing.

"Ariel," Christine said quietly.

"Hmmm?"

"We freed her from the trees. Ariel. And Puck."

The female turned and looked at them. She seemed to be studying them, considering.

"Ariel is traditionally played by a male," Finch ventured.

"Wood sprites have no gender."

"Fair enough. It does seem to fit."

The little cat shook herself, then stepped delicately to the food bowl and began to crunch on kitten chow. Her brother joined her.

"I wasn't sure about the canned food," Harold said.

"Probably pretty rich for them. I'll give them a little in the morning."

"I'll have Mr. Reese bring your cat carrier back. They'll need to see a vet."

Christine nodded.

"Do you have any wounds that need dressing?"

"No. Just lots of little scratches."

He could see the one that started at her collar bone clearly. It looked painful, but not deep or serious. "You should get some sleep," Finch said fondly.

"Mmm-hmmm."

Neither of them moved.

"Do you want me to tuck you in?" he offered.

"Mmm, no. I'll walk you out."

She still didn't move until Finch tightened his arm and steered her toward the kitchen.

"Random," she began, at the back door.

"Shhh," he answered again. He wrapped his arms around her and she immediately returned his embrace. "You're here now. We're okay."

Beneath the soft-worn sweatshirt, she felt painfully thin. But that could be remedied. She was back, and she was staying.

She was all but asleep on her feet, there in his arms. "Go to bed," he said, gently disentangling himself.

"M'kay."

He watched her shamble back down the hall. Then he went down the stairs – quietly.

As he started his car, he scratched his arm absently. Then he caught himself and frowned deeply. His suit, he decided, was going into a plastic bag and back out into the car tonight, along with every other item of clothing he was wearing. First thing tomorrow the clothes would go to the cleaners and the car to the detailer.

It was unlikely that the kittens had left any fleas behind; they'd been confined inside Christine shirt. But he wasn't taking any chances.

He scratched the back of his neck and drove to his nearest apartment.


	7. Chapter 7

"So she's on a hunger strike, huh?" Shaw took an apple off the undelivered breakfast tray – Root wasn't going to eat it anyhow – and munched it while she gazed at the monitors.

"That's why I told you not to come in," Control answered. "We'll do a tube feeding in a bit."

"That should be entertaining." She eyed the angry scratches on Control's face. "You're gonna need some extra hands."

"I am aware that she'll put up a fight, thank you."

"You figure what, about three more days?"

"About that. Maybe more."

Shaw rubbed her hip absently, feeling the bandage over the tiny incision they've made. "It's too obvious, you know. She'll see right through it."

"That's what I'm counting on it."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Whatever you like," Control answered. "Don't leave town, of course, but enjoy your time off. We'll call you when she's ready to cooperate."

"Okay." Shaw tossed her apple core into the trash can at the far side of the room and walked out.

* * *

"Who is she?" Roy Johnson asked, when Moira went off to the waffle bar during breakfast. They hadn't had a chance to talk about her the night before; she never left Susan's side.

"She's from Oklahoma," Susan answered. "Romine put her in my room."

"Do you trust her?"

"I just met her. But she's with us on fracking, anyhow."

"Well, sure," Luke Stratton said. "Anyone with a brain is with us on _that_."

"Except the ones that work for big energy," Johnson countered. "Is she going to help us?"

Susan thought about it. "I don't think so. She's nice enough, but … I've got a weird feeling about her."

"Sure, but it always takes you four or five years to warm up to anybody."

"You didn't even speak to us for the first two years."

She smiled tightly. "I said I was sorry."

"You thought we were going to hit on you," Johnson said knowingly.

"Weren't you?"

"Well, yeah," Stratton answered, "but not after we met Martin." And then he added, "Sorry, Suz."

"It's okay. But I think we have enough of us. Did you bring the dye?"

Luke's face fell. "I couldn't get it on the airplane."

"What?"

"I'm sure we can buy some here."

"You had one job," Johnson said. "One job."

"I'm sorry, they stopped me at check-in …"

"What was your one job?" Moira asked brightly as she rejoined the group.

The trio shared looks. "Booze," Susan finally said. "He was supposed to bring cheap booze, so we didn't have to pay New York tax all week."

"Oh. That's good thinking."

"Except he screwed it up," Roy said.

"Well, we could still hit a liquor store," Moira suggested. "It would be cheaper than paying the hotel bar prices."

"That's true."

"Anybody need coffee while I'm up?"

"I think I'm done," Susan said.

"Well, I definitely need one more if I'm going to stay awake all morning. The other woman trotted off to the self-serve coffee pot. "One more round!"

Susan sighed and settled back in her seat.

* * *

John Reese jogged up the library steps two at a time. He felt good. He'd slept very well, and his hot yoga class had left him warm and loose. There had been no message from Finch, so he'd detoured to get some addictively good cinnamon rolls from O'Phelan's. He ordered and paid for four, but when he got in the car he realized there were six in the box.

He wasn't about to go back and argue. He already knew the rolls reheated very well if there happened to be leftovers.

Reese had never had much luck getting information out of Finch by means of treats, or liquor, or any of a dozen other techniques, so he didn't actually anticipate that cinnamon rolls would get him any information about the Finch/Fitzgerald situation. But it didn't hurt to try.

Bear met him enthusiastically at the top of the stairs, with a tennis ball in his mouth. John held his hand out for the ball, then threw it. The Malnois chased it happily.

"Mr. Reese." Finch was standing at the board, hanging pictures, but from his tone he was stress-free. "O'Phelans?"

"You didn't tell me we had a Number." He set the box down on the desk and moved to the board.

"Oh, we don't. Not as yet, anyhow." Finch knocked his knuckles lightly on his wood desk. "This is just a bit of side work."

John looked at the picture. "I know this guy, don't I?"

"Sam Campanella."

"Chairman of Venture East Financial," Reese completed immediately. He felt his recently-relaxed shoulders begin to tense. They had researched the man way back when Christine Fitzgerald's number had come up.

"Chairman Emeritus," Finch corrected. He went back to his printer for more reports. "He retired in July. And as of mid-September, he'll be the Chairman of the Board of the Carson-Ingram Renewable Energy Initiative."

"Ahhhh." John let his shoulders relax again. "And you don't approve."

"I do, actually," Finch answered. "At least I think I do. I'll let you know for sure when I've thoroughly vetted the man. Which I have not yet had time to do."

Reese went to the kitchenette and got plates and napkins for the cinnamon rolls. Carefully, he probed the logical if unexpected opening. "Christine seems to know him pretty well. You should talk to her."

"Hmmm," Finch didn't respond noticeably to the mention of her name. "I know that she trusts him implicitly. Her good opinion weighs heavily in his favor. Still, I prefer my own due diligence."

John sat down behind the desk and got himself a pastry. "You should go see her anyhow."

"Miss Fitzgerald? I saw her last night."

"You did?" Reese failed to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"After our respective dinners."

"Oh." Then, casually, "How'd that go?"

"Fine."

"Hmm?" John stuffed a bite of cinnamon roll into his mouth. He wanted Finch to talk more, and he knew leading questions wouldn't work, so he conveniently shut himself up with pastry.

Finch got a roll of his own, took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. "She's quite thin. As I'm sure you noticed. And very tired, when I saw her. Understandably, of course."

"Uh-huh."

"We had a rather … significant … conversation." Harold nodded, apparently satisfied with this phrasing. "Significant and heart-felt. We were able to clear the air on a number of issues."

It wasn't like Finch to grope for words. Reese had gotten pretty good at reading between the lines, but he didn't know what Harold was trying to tell him.

 _Heart-felt?_

John had a sudden urge to grab his partner by the collar and shake a straight answer out of him. But of course he'd tried that before and gotten nowhere. He pointed toward the second board. "What's this?"

Finch scowled gently. "Someone wants to buy one of my libraries."

"You have more than one?"

"I have more than a dozen, as you well know." Finch moved to the board. There were several letters and documents on it, as well as a dozen glossy photos. "But this group would like to convert one of the smaller branches into housing for low-income veterans."

"That sounds like a good cause." Reese rolled to his feet and joined him. The pictures showed various architectural features of the small-ish library. It looked old but well-kept.

"I know. And that's the only reason I'm considering it." Harold sighed. "I suppose I have to accept the reality that the City of New York will never have the funding to reopen these branches."

"Libraries are kinda going to way of the dodo, Finch." At his partner's hurt expression, Reese quickly added, "Everyone reads books on their phones and tablets these days."

"It's not the same," Harold protested. "And besides, libraries provide community meeting space, programs, homework help, internet access …"

"So insist that they set up a community reading room as part of the development."

Finch paused in mid-rant. "That's … quite an excellent idea, Mr. Reese."

"You could sound a little less surprised. I do have good ideas once in a while."

"It will be a shame to lose the building. The shelves are mostly solid oak, more than a hundred years old …" He stopped himself. "Still. It's the right thing." He scowled. "Assuming that this organization checks out, of course."

"Of course."

Finch returned to his desk chair. "When you've finished your breakfast, if you have nothing planned, I told Miss Fitzgerald you'd take her cat carrier back to her."

"With her cat in it?" Reese asked carefully.

Finch smirked. "I think we can officially dispense with the fiction that Smokey is merely on loan to the library. Christine has acquired kittens."

"I checked her bags," Reese protested, partly to cover his relief. "There were no kittens."

"These are domestic felines, I assure you." Finch scratched absently behind his ear. "They were stuck on the roof in the park."

"Chaos Park?"

"Fitzgerald Pa—yes, I suppose we will always call it Chaos Park, won't we?"

"How'd they get on the roof?"

"A larger cat chased them up a construction ladder that was left against the back of the building."

"How'd you get them down?"

"Miss Fitzgerald climbed up and caught them."

"On the roof. In the dark."

"The area is actually fairly well illuminated." Finch raised a hand to forestall protest. "Believe me, I shared your concern. And expressed it. But as you know, she can be quite determined."

John did know, actually. And when something small and helpless was involved … "How many kittens are we talking about?"

"Two." Finch scratched his arm. "She's named them, so I presume she intends to keep them. But they will need thorough veterinary attention."

"Do they have fleas?" Reese guessed.

Harold stopped, his hand half-way to his opposite elbow. "They've been flea-bathed," he said ruefully, "and all the associated gear thoroughly laundered. My itching is purely imaginary, I'm sure."

"I'm sure." John grinned. "I'll take care of it."

"Thank you." Finch wiped his fingers and turned back to his keyboard.

Bear dropped his tennis ball on John's shoe.

"How 'bout it, boy?" Reese scratched the dog's ears. "You want to go meet some more baby kitties?"

The dog danced eagerly.

"Do you think he has any idea what you're saying?" Finch asked drily. "Beyond the word _go_?"

"Does it matter?" Reese tossed the ball down the long hallway. He dropped a second cinnamon roll onto Finch's plate, then closed the box on the remaining three. He understood the extras now; the peculiar little chef at O'Phelan's had packed them for Christine. He didn't believe in psychics. But he was glad for the extra rolls.

He wasn't pleased that Christine had been climbing onto roofs and chasing feral cats in the dark, or that Finch had stood by and abetted that dangerous behavior. But the story of their late-night adventure convinced him that things were finally and happily resolved between the two of them.

But … _heart-felt?_ he wondered again.

He got the cat carrier from the storage room, and then Bear's leash.

* * *

Control brought the breakfast tray herself.

The scratches on her cheek were still bright red.

Root sat in the back corner of her bunk. She had her knees up against her chest, tucked under her shirt, and the thin sheet wrapped tightly around her compact body.

"Chilly in here, isn't it?" Control asked brightly. "You should have asked for a sweater."

"Would you have given me one?"

"No."

The woman set the tray down on the little table. "You have one hour."

"I'm not hungry."

"Okay."

Control left the cell.

Root closed her eyes and settled her forehead against her knees. She hadn't slept. She'd stopped being hungry, mostly, but she could feel how weak her hunger strike her left her. She was cold.

And very soon, now, things were going to get ugly.

But it would be worth it. It was her first step to getting back to the Machine.

She rested and she waited.

* * *

The morning began with the first large-group seminar, an overview of new developments in the field of hydraulics.

Moira McAllister stayed right by Susan Holsey's side. It seemed to Susan that the other woman wasn't really following some of the presentation. But maybe she was just bored and not really paying attention. A lot of the engineers just came for the drinking and travel. Hard to resist an expense account.

During the mid-morning break, some of the other flat-state engineers who had heard Moira was from Oklahoma came over and started a conversation with her. Relieved, Susan broke out her laptop and began her search.

She didn't have any problem finding suppliers. The prices were two to three times higher than she would have paid in Pennsylvania. And finding one that she could get to with no car was tricky. She could read the MTA route map easily enough, but she had no idea about the neighborhoods she'd be going into …

"What's that?"

Susan jumped. Moira was right over her shoulder, reading her computer screen.

"Uh … Pot Perm."

"Sounds sexy. What's it for?"

 _How does she not know what potassium permanganate is for?_ Susan wondered. _That's Water Systems 101._ "I was just curious what it costs here in New York. As compared to home."

"A lot more, I bet."

"Oh, yeah." Then playing her hunch, Susan asked, "What do you pay for a case in Omaha?"

"Oh, I, uh, I don't really know. I mean, our equipment guy handles that."

"Oh."

"You have to buy your own?"

"We have a tiny office. I do some of everything."

Moira nodded. She sat down as the next speaker stepped to the podium. "It's Oklahoma," she said quietly.

"Hmmm?"

"You said Omaha. That's in Nebraska. I'm from Oklahoma."

"Oh, right." Susan closed her computer. "Sorry. All those Western states look like of alike to use Easterners."

Moira nodded. "Honestly? They all kind of look alike to us, too. It's all flat."

Susan chuckled uneasily and focused her attention on the speaker.

* * *

Reese thought about going into the CIREI offices, but he saw a lot of people through the front window and he wasn't in the mood to share the cinnamon rolls. He went around to the back and let Bear trot ahead of him up to the apartment. The door unlocked just as he reached for the handle. He threw a crooked grin at the overhead camera and went inside.

His phone buzzed as he set the rolls down. The message read simply, OMW. _On my way._ He leaned down and unclipped the dog's leash. Bear immediately ran down the hall. Reese strolled after him, with the cat carrier.

Bear darted into Christine's bedroom. By the time Reese got there, the dog was whining, with his front feet up on the suitcase that blocked the bathroom door. "Easy, boy." John rubbed his ears while he looked over the divider. A small black kitten was similarly paws-up on the other side, eagerly trying to reach the dog. Finch had said there were two, but he didn't see the second one. It was probably in the box that was set on its side in the corner.

At least this kitten looked big enough that it was probably weaned. Smokey had been hours old when Bear had rescued her, and Christine had bottle-fed her for weeks.

The little fluffball meowed, louder than Reese would have expected. Bear barked softly, just once.

The kitten panicked and scrambled back into the box.

"You scared him," John said. Bear looked up at him, worried. "It's okay. He'll get used to you."

The kitten emerged from the box, carefully and deliberate. It stopped two steps from shelter and studied both John and the dog with narrowed green eyes. Bear whined again and the kitten's back arched, but it took two more steps toward them. A second kitten peered out of the box, meowed loudly and nervously.

"Ah," Reese realized, "you're the other one."

The kitten stopped and stared at him.

"We won't hurt you."

Bear whimpered his agreement.

The kitten continued her careful walk toward the divider. She paused, then stretched upward to touch her nose to Bear's. Unimpressed, she dropped to all fours and strolled to the food bowl.

The louder kitten apparently took this as an all-clear signal. He trotted out of the box and jumped up to see Bear again.

"Good morning." John leaned and scooped up the kitten. It was very thin. It was also curious and athletic; it immediately began to climb up the front of Reese's jacket. Bear danced around eagerly. John sat down on the bed and detached the kitten so he could hold it in his lap and let the dog sniff it.

The kitten arched its back and hissed adorably.

Bear ignored the hissing and licked it anyhow.

"You might not want to let them get too close," Christine said from the doorway, "until we get his worms cleared up." She took a second bite of the cinnamon roll she held.

"Probably." Reese stood up, moving the kitten out of the dog's reach. Bear danced happily at his feet. "Later," he promised. "How's work?"

"It's ten o'clock. This is breakfast." She gestured with the roll. "Thank you, by the way. This is really good. I'm drowning in stuff to catch up on. If it wasn't for Taylor Carter I'd be drowning and also buried under an avalanche."

"I could take these guys for you." The kitten climbed up to his shoulder and perched there. It looked down at Bear, then decided to climb to the top of John's head. "Ah, no, ouch," he said, plucking the kitten off again. "Settle down."

"I'll go. I need a minute to strategize anyhow."

"I'll drive."

"No Number?"

"Not yet." He plucked the kitten off his jacket again – Finch was going to have a fit about all the little snags – and tucked it into the cat carrier. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Some. I think."

"So no. You know, this is the second time I've told Fusco to drive you home and then found out you were running the streets."

"I had to make sure my city was okay."

Reese snorted. "We took care of it while you were gone."

"I know." Christine stepped over the suitcase awkwardly and reached for the second kitten. It ran back into its box. She reached in and pulled it out, its claws still tangled in a towel. It growled, hissed, bit at her bare hands and tried to rip her arm open with frantic back leg kicks. John opened the carrier door for her. Kitten and towel went in together and he locked the door behind the vicious little beast.

"Let's see." He took Christine's hands. She had seven freshly-bleeding scratches, all thin and shallow, as well as more than a dozen slightly older wounds that disappeared up her sleeves. He could see a deeper scratch that started at her collarbone and went down the front of her shirt. "You sure she's worth it?"

"She's just a fighter. She'll be okay once she gets used to being safe." She smirked. "And Will already wrote me a script for antibiotics."

"Did you get it filled?"

"Yes, dear. Let me go rinse these and then we'll go."

"Put some bacitracin on them."

"Yes, dear," she repeated.

Inside the crate, the kitten continued to growl fiercely. Bear peeked through the grating from a safe distance. "What do you think, Bear?" John asked. "You want to go see the vet with us?"

The dog dropped to his belly and looked pointedly in the other direction.

"And Harold think you don't know what I'm saying," Reese chuckled. "Okay, you can stay here, but out of the bedroom. I don't need you eating the kitty food. Or anything else."

He gestured and the dog followed him out.


	8. Chapter 8

"Hey, Mom," Taylor said, "do you still have those little books you used to have? With the blue covers?"

Carter paused, her take-out chopsticks half-way to her mouth. "The police training modules?"

"Yeah."

"They're in my closet. Why?"

"I was thinking I'd look through them." He folded his long legs under him on the couch. "I remember they had really useful stuff."

"You, uh, thinking about applying to the Academy?" Joss asked as casually as she could.

Her son frowned at her. "No. I mean … do you want me to?"

"No."

"Good. No, I was just thinking I'd review like the first aid one, and like fire drills and stuff. And maybe the delivering babies one."

"Ahhh." Joss took another bite, chewed to hide her smile. "I don't think you're going to need to delivery Julie's baby."

"I know. But if something does happen, I want to know enough that I'm not completely useless, either."

"Reasonable. They're in black binders on the top shelf. On the left."

"Thanks, Mom. Are you gonna eat both these egg rolls?"

"I thought you weren't hungry."

"Okay."

"But I ordered an extra because I know you."

Taylor grinned and picked one up. "Thanks."

"Anything else bothering you at the office?" Joss asked carefully. "Making you feel useless?" She felt her Mama Bear instinct rearing up, but she kept it out of her voice.

He shook his head until he had chewed and swallowed. "No. Just, now that everybody's back and we're really starting, I'm trying to figure out where I fit, you know?"

"Mmmm."

"Now that Ms. Donna's there, she's taken over a lot of stuff I was doing. The letters and e-mails especially. And the calendar. Which is great, and there's always stuff that I can be doing, but … I want to be useful."

"Ms. Donna? Is she new?"

This time he nodded through the bite.

"Donna Kellingsworth. She was Mr. Campanella's assistant, until he retired, and then she retired, too. But then he came to CIREI and asked her to come over for a year to get us set up."

"Is she nice?"

Taylor hesitated. "She's not mean. She just likes things the way she likes things, you know? Like not strict, exactly, but … like Grandma in the kitchen, the glass cups are for measuring liquids and the plastic ones are for dry stuff and there's no discussion about it. Like that."

"Particular."

"Yeah, that. Particular. She's used to everything being real formal, and we're all wearing jeans and flopping on the couch and playing music. She's trying. She wore pants today, and flat shoes, which I guess is a big thing for her." He paused. "I actually really like her. I like having somebody that's a little more organized. She already knows, like, everything."

Carter nodded. She knew her son enjoyed the free-spirited atmosphere at CIREI, but she could also see where some stability would be welcome. Will Ingram was smart enough, but he had a heart as big as the world and he did what it told him. His wife was more practical, and very good at getting things done, but office organization wasn't her specialty. Scotty Fitzgerald was all about the tech; even when she'd had the coffee shop, she had farmed out the day-to-day operation. Bringing in someone a little stuffy – particular – was exactly what they needed.

She was glad her son could recognize that.

"I'm sure there's going to be plenty for you to do. And I'm sure they don't think you're useless."

"I know. But I want to stay ahead of it, you know? I like …" he grinned slyly "… I like being able to surprise them by knowing things."

"Well, there's nothing wrong with that."

"Oh. I forgot to ask. John said he'd teach me to drive stick shift, if I got your permission."

Joss took a slow breath. She had a sudden vision of Taylor in some stolen sports car, throwing up dirt and gravel as he sped through slides and donuts in some empty lot while John Reese sat beside him and urged him to go faster …

"We'll see."

Taylor's eyes dropped. "Okay."

Carter sighed. "We can talk about it when you get back from your trip."

He brightened a little. "I'll be careful, I promise."

"It's not you I'm worried about." She smiled wryly. "Go ahead."

"What?"

"I see you eyeballing that last egg roll. Go ahead."

Taylor grinned. "Thanks, Mom!"

* * *

When Nick returned to his desk with a fresh cup of coffee, there was a message notification on his screen.

He leaned back to push his door half-way shut, to keep any casual eyes off his screen, then tapped his keyboard.

SURVEILLANCE CONTACT WITH SITE PHS23 HAD BEEN TERMINATED EFFECTIVE 10:47:54 EST

UNABLE TO REASTABLISH CONTACT

Donnelly cocked his head. "Okay," he asked quietly, "What's at that site?"

SUBJECT: GROVES, SAMANTHA, AKA ROOT

"Oh, shit. Do we need to send marines?"

ALL ADJACENT INSTALLATIONS OPERATING NORMALLY. NO ALERTS ISSUED.

He relaxed marginally. "You think Control cut off the surveillance feeds intentionally."

89.675% LIKELIHOOD

"Any idea why?"

From the speaker, a phone buzzed softly, and then a woman's voice, irritated and coarse, said, _"Sir?"_

 _"How's our project coming?"_ a man demanded

On the screen, Asena provided a time stamp and the names of the participants of the conversation: Control and Senator Garrison.

" _Exactly as expected,"_ the woman answered. _"We're right on schedule."_

 _"I'm going to need you to step up that schedule."_

Donnelly listened to the rest of the brief conversation. He scowled deeply. "So whatever Control has planned, she doesn't want Garrison, or anyone else, looking over her shoulder."

THAT IS MY CONCLUSION

"I don't like it. She's going to try something cute."

The supercomputer did not respond.

Donnelly rolled it over in his mind. There was nothing much he could do about it. Control would know the ins and outs of surveillance in her own holding facility. Any action he took to reestablish that surveillance would reveal that the Machine had told him that contact had been lost. There were backchannels, of course, and he could navigate all of them with ease. He didn't trust Control. She was a terribly smart woman, and ruthless, but she was not smarter or more ruthless that Root – and she didn't know it.

Still, he trusted Garrison even less.

"Can you show me a schematic? A floor plan of the facility?"

There was a three-second delay, and then a blueprint of the secret facility appeared on his computer screen. Unprompted, the computer drew a red line around the blacked-out section. It was at the heart of the larger facility.

"You have good eyes on all the areas surrounding this section?"

AT THE MOMENT, YES.

Donnelly thought about it for a long moment.

"Keep me posted," he finally said. "If anything changes – or if anything concerns you – let me know."

I WILL

"Thank you."

The blueprint vanished and the file he'd been working on before he went for coffee reappeared.

"No rest for the wicked," Donnelly sighed. He sat up and pulled his keyboard to him.

* * *

Moira McAllister – whose given name was really Victoria – had learned from her first partner on her very first mission that restrooms were not a good place to make her reports from. It was too easy for someone to walk in unexpectedly, and too obvious that she was trying to be surreptitious. Instead, she found an out-of-the-way corner of the hotel lobby and made her phone call. She could lean against the wall and observe anyone coming close, and to a casual observer it looked like she was just trying to find a place quiet enough to hear clearly. Normal human behavior. Nothing sneaky.

Linderson answered on the first ring. "Anything?"

"Nice to talk to you, too, boss."

He sighed. "Hello, Victoria, it's so nice to hear from you, how are you enjoying the conference?"

She grinned. "Oh, God, I am so bored."

"Glamorous field work. I do not miss it."

"Aw, damn, I was going to ask if you wanted to come join me."

"Is that enough pleasantries? Can we get to the point?"

McCallister sighed. "I don't know. They're really upset about fracking, but … they seem more like the kind that write angry letters to the editor than terrorists."

"Nothing suggestive?"

"Well …"

"Talk to me, McAllister."

"This Susan Holsey. She's still grieving about her husband." She shifted slightly and could see her roommate, huddled with four or five other engineers.

"The cancer victim."

"Yeah. The one that probably got the cancer from fracking chemicals." They'd done thorough research on all the members of the group. "She hangs out with this same little circle. They're not especially welcoming to newcomers." She gave her handler the names of the others. "They might be plotting something – but like I said, it might be a massive letter-writing campaign. None of these people seem violent."

"And yet," Linderson prompted, "you brought up her name."

"She was looking to make a local purchase of something called Pot Perm."

"Pot Perm?"

"Yeah. I don't know what that it."

"Potassium permanganate. It's a commercial disinfectant used in water systems."

McAllister blinked. "Sure."

"It's very common," Linderson told her with mild exasperation. "Serious aquarium aficionados use it as well."

It didn't surprise her at all that Linderson probably had a big fancy fish tank at home. "She didn't bring her gold fish to New York. Why would she need it _here_?"

"That's a very good question."

"And she had a box shipped to her at the hotel. Heavy. It's got these pump things in it. I'll try to get a picture. They're not very big. But they've got a timer on them."

"Could they be used as detonators?"

The agent shook her head. "I don't think so, but … these people are engineers. So maybe?" The convention-goers had started to file back into the meeting room. "I've got to get back. See what you can find out, okay?"

"Call in later."

"I will." Victoria put her phone away, adjusted her shirt as she slipped back into Moira-mode, and went back to join her roommate.

* * *

Control returned, silent this time, flanked by four beefy men in white jackets. The last one pushed a cart, its contents covered with a clean white towel. "Tell us where the Machine is," she said calmly, "and how to access it."

Root glared at them from her bunk. "Bring Shaw back."

"You're not in charge here, Miss Groves."

"You're wrong about that and you know it. If you don't get results soon, your ample ass is on the line, isn't it?"

The corner of Control's mouth twitched, and Root swore inwardly. In making a shallow personal attack, she'd revealed her own insecurity.

The woman flicked her fingers, and two of the white coats started toward Root. The cart-pusher went back out and returned with what looked like a dentist chair, except for the bondage straps for the wrists, ankles, and head. It was on wheels that squeaked.

"This is very simple, Miss Groves. You tell me what's on the chip, and how to reach the Machine, and we won't strap you down and force-feed you."

"My name is Root. And you really don't want to do this."

"Actually," the woman touched the scratches on her cheek, "I think I do."

"Every time you open that cell door," Root reminded her.

"You will never escape from here," Control answered mildly.

"I'll never stop trying."

"Of course not." The woman smiled tightly. "Well. Shall we begin?"

Root fought them, as hard as she could. She broke one of the thug's fingers, and bit another's arm hard enough to draw blood. But of course they overpowered her. They strapped her to the chair and immobilized her head. She managed to gag herself on the feeding tube, and then there was a prick in her neck and she spiraled down from consciousness.

In her last seconds of awareness, she looked for Control, intent on meeting her eyes and letting her know with a look that she had not won. But the woman was not there.

It didn't matter, Root told herself. She held a single glowing word in her mind. A promise, a threat. A hope. _Soon_.

* * *

Hersh parked at the curb and waited. He kept his hands on the steering wheel and angled his body in the seat just slightly so that he could see in the rear-view mirror. His body remained motionless after that, but his eyes never stopped moving behind his sunglasses.

The senator was three minutes late.

Garrison opened the door and slid into the back seat. "Drive," he barked, even before he had the door closed.

Hersh drove.

"I have a job for you," the senator said.

Hersh glanced at him in the mirror, but didn't bother to answer. _Of course you have a job for me. You never call when you don't._

"This Root person, Control's having trouble getting her to cooperate."

"Huh." _This Root person? You mean pretty little Miss May? The clever tart who infiltrated your office because you were so smitten by her nice legs that you didn't bother to let us do a thorough background on her? The one who played you like a cheap fiddle? Imagine that._ "You want me to have a go at her?"

Garrison hesitated. "No," he finally said. "But these idiots in the House want to cut our budget again. I need something to shake them up. Remind them why Northern Lights is a critical program."

"You need another attack," Hersh said calmly.

"Nothing too big. Limit the casualties. But flashy. Something to attract attention, rile up the rubes."

"Like the Perk poisoning."

Garrison snorted. "Like that, but with a more obviously radicalized terrorist."

"Hmmm."

"It wouldn't hurt if we could tie the two together."

"I'll see what's in the pipeline," Hersh said.

"I need it in the next week or so. It needs some air time before they get serious about the budget in September."

"I'll get right on it."

Garrison grunted and pulled out his cell phone. "Put the window up, would you?"

Hersh waited until the dark glass was all the way up before he smirked. The senator wanted the window up so he could have some privacy on his cell phone call. Garrison should know better than anyone that there was no such thing anymore.

* * *

Finch paused in front of the board again. It was mostly filled with documents and pictures, but his deep search through the life of Sam Campanella had not turned up anything more than the mildest infractions against humanity: He had been ticketed once for speeding and once for a lane change violation; he had had 37 parking tickets in the past ten years; he had been arrested and released twice at protests.

He was that rarest of all wealthy businessmen: genuinely honest and good.

That could, Finch mused, be problematic in the future. If a genuinely honest, law-abiding man like Campanella ever learned about the Machine, or about 'Uncle Harold's' connection to it, he might well feel himself compelled to report it to the proper authorities.

Provided he could even figure out who the proper authorities were.

Finch snorted. "Good luck with that."

He would make an excellent Chair for CIREI's new board. But Finch would need to be careful with him.

He nodded to himself, content. He was always happier when he knew where he stood with people. He liked, as he had told Reese years ago, knowing _exactly everything_ about them. There was safety in knowledge.

Finch went to the kitchenette and plugged in the electric kettle. While it heated he set up to brew half a pot of tea. It was very warm outside, but within the thick walls of the library the night's chill lingered.

Campanella was an anomaly, certainly. He was very nearly as clean as Grace Hendricks. It was a wonder the Machine hadn't flagged him for Harold years before.

As the kettle began to whisper, Harold frowned. He'd just thought about Grace and there had been only the finest brush of pain. Grace was a fact in his life, and she always would be, but it felt already like that wound had closed and nearly healed. The scar remained, but he had many scars and this one was no longer the freshest.

He probably he shouldn't have taken Christine to the townhouse.

No, on reflection, he _definitely_ shouldn't have taken Christine to the townhouse. It had served no purpose except to frighten her. It was only by some unnamable grace that it had not frightened her enough to make her run. She should run. She would live longer and more happily if she ran.

Finch had the means to watch her, not in her apartment but in the CIREI offices and in the area surrounding her building. He had not done so that morning, because he had not the slightest doubt that she would still be there. She had said she would stay, and for good or ill, he believed her.

Christine Fitzgerald was nothing if not a deeply determined woman.

He raised his hand to the side of his neck. It ached, as always, but only mildly today. No stress to aggravate the muscles.

 _That night._ The night Chaos had burned to the ground. When Root had poisoned the city, and the Numbers just kept coming. When he had spent hours hunched over his keyboard, desperately feeding identities to Donnelly, while John Reese was drugged out of his mind. He could remember how badly his neck had hurt that night, all but unbearable, making the concentration he needed impossible, and then Christine, deeply determined: _Look. I only had a little patience to start with and John used it all up hours ago. You need to work and you're not going to be able to much longer. I can help. So take your damn shirt off._

Her gloved hands on his bare skin. Calm and professional as she placed dozens of acupuncture needles in his knotted muscles, as she magically wove relief through his nerves. And the touch alone was enough to soothe him. Her hands, her voice, the simple contact …

The kettle whistled. Finch pulled the plug and poured the hot water over the loose tea in the basket.

"She should run," he muttered darkly to himself.

While his tea steeped, he went to take down his research on Christine's old friend.


	9. Chapter 9

Susan Holsey tapped her pen on the tabletop impatiently while she listened to the phone ring. She was alone in the restaurant, but she knew that wouldn't last. Her new roommate stuck to her like glue. She was going to have to figure out some way to shake her for the mission.

She smirked to herself. But it _was_ a mission. And she intended to complete it.

If these idiots ever answered their phone …

Finally, after twelve rings, a man snapped, "Yeah?"

"Hello, oh, I'm … that is, this is …"

"Yeah?" the man barked again.

Susan took a breath. "I need to order a jug of Pot Perm Pro."

"Two pounder?"

"Yes."

"What else?"

"That's all."

"Gonna have to charge you for delivery."

Holsey blinked. She'd spent most of an hour figuring out how to get out to Brooklyn to pick it up. "No problem."

"You got an account?"

"Uh … no."

"Got a credit card?"

It was that easy. Susan gave her credit card number, her name, and the address of the hotel. The gruff man promised delivery in the morning. That was all.

By the time Moira McAllister came back, Susan had her phone and credit card tucked away.

* * *

Will Ingram frowned at him laptop, as he often did.

"Can I help?" Taylor offered.

"I can't open this thing they e-mailed me."

With some effort, Taylor did not roll his eyes. He'd heard Scotty tell him repeatedly not to open attachments without running them through security protocols. After three viruses in three days, she had simply locked Ingram out. "I'll get it." He sat down on the couch, took the laptop, and ran the protocol. "This is someone you know?"

"Yeah, it's from the reservation."

The image doc cleared through and opened. "Here you go." Taylor handed the laptop back.

"You want to see?" Will moved over so they could look at the screen together. "They're planning to build a community center next to our renewable installation. Community kitchen, social space, tech center, classrooms. Gym. And a coin laundry in the back."

"Looks nice."

"Yeah. I think it will be really useful. Once we get formal plans from the architect, we'll use it as the model for the other installations. Each tribe can modify as needed, but they won't have to start from scratch."

Taylor nodded. "That sounds smart."

"I'm excited about this. This will do the reservations so much good."

"I wish we could –" Taylor stopped. "Never mind."

"Could what?"

"Nothing. It's a dumb idea."

"Dumber than trying to build a million windmills?"

The younger man shook his head. "I'm just thinking – I know they need these centers, I get it. But when the power goes out _here_ in New York – we need them, too. When we had that big blackout when I was a kid, and when Sandy came ashore … I don't know. It's dumb."

"It's not dumb. Jules!"

His wife ambled over. "That the community center plans?"

"Yeah." He scooted the other way and made room for her on the couch. "Taylor wants to know if we can do installations here in the city."

Taylor tensed, but Julie barely hesitated. "Don't see why not. Have to thread all the zoning crap, and it would be expensive … but it would save us having to fly out here," she gestured to the computer, "if we wanted to test out something short-term. Scotty!"

"Yo." The tech guru came out of her office. She had an empty coffee mug in her hand.

"Can we set up windmills in the city?"

"Probably not. Solar, yes. Windmills, doubtful. Maybe."

"I think we should," Will decided. He looked back at Taylor. "You have somewhere in mind?"

"Uh … honestly, I didn't think you'd go for it." He took a breath. "The obvious sites would be existing emergency shelters. Warming centers and whatever."

"Libraries," Scotty suggested. "But then we have to deal with the city."

"Schools, too," Julie added. "Same deal."

"Can we not deal with the city?" Will asked. "I mean, why can't we deal with the city?"

"We _can_ ," Scotty clarified, "but it is a major pain in the ass. For a pilot project, it's probably more time and money than it's worth."

Julie nodded again. "Once we can go to them and say, here's what we want to do, here's how much it will save, here's the installation procedure, then it's worth jumping through their hoops. But for phase one? Ehhh."

"What about churches?" Taylor suggested.

"Easier," Julie agreed. "We'd still have to deal with the city for construction permits and stuff, but it would definitely be easier."

Scotty suddenly had an odd distant look on her face. "What?" Taylor asked.

"Construction in Greater NYC," she said. "It's not just the city we have to get by. It's the Mob."

Will shifted. "Is that a question of money?"

"Only partly." She shook her head. "I might be able to arrange something. Let me chew on it." She turned to Taylor. "To the internet, young man. Churches used as emergency shelters in the city of New York."

"On it." He hurried to the side counter and grabbed a computer.

* * *

Root woke on her bunk with dried blood in her mouth. She lay still for a moment, running her tongue around her teeth, testing. Her tongue itself was very painful; she'd bitten it, twice. Under the taste of copper and rust there was something else. Something metallic, but different.

She'd been sedated, she remembered.

Then she remembered why.

She flung herself off her bunk, landed on her hands and knees, and contracted her stomach muscles until she forced herself to vomit. A small amount of grayish goop came up and landed in a puddle on the floor; after that there was only yellow bile. They'd kept her sedated until her body had processed most of the feeding.

"Bitch," Root muttered. She sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

There were bruises on her wrists and her ankles, and probably on her face. She touched the back of her head. It was tender, probably also bruised. Still, nothing broken. _Unlike the other guys_ , she smirked.

They would be more prepared next time.

She looked toward the corner of the ceiling where she was pretty certain there was a camera. "Are you seeing this?" she asked softly. "Do you see what they're going to me? But I won't help them. I'll protect you. I swear." She pulled herself back up on her bunk. "And I'll be with you soon, sweetie. I'll be with you soon."

* * *

Finch's phone vibrated on his desk, just once. "Christine's here," he announced.

Reese continued to tighten the straps on his thin body armor. "She's seen me without a shirt before."

"I didn't want you to be startled and shoot her by accident."

"I am very careful about positive target acquisition," John huffed lightly. Bear jumped up and ran down the stairs. "You tracking her again?"

"I reclaimed my app," Finch answered dourly.

The dog and the woman came up the stairs together. "Hey, kiddo." Reese pulled his dress shirt on and leaned to let her kiss him on the cheek. "You okay?"

"Fine," Christine answered. "I come bearing invitations and news." She produced two square envelopes, heavy and white, with a windmill logo that Finch had helped create in the corner. "You are hereby invited to the Chairman's Inaugural Ball." Her mouth twisted a little around the words; she was clearly less than enthusiastic. She handed John his envelope, then came around the desk to deliver Harold's.

"I had heard rumors of such an event," Finch said. "This is very formal."

"The terrible efficient Ms. Kellingsworth has come with Sam to the organization."

"The formidable administrative assistant?"

Christine nodded. "She is _really_ good at what she does. We need her."

"I wouldn't think she'd fit into CIREI's corporate atmosphere – or complete lack thereof."

"She showed up in khakis today. We'll have her in jeans by Christmas."

"Perhaps."

"We'll be there if we can." Reese opened the top drawer of the wooden filing cabinet and retrieved a handgun.

"The other guests may preclude our attendance," Finch explained.

"Understood. The day after the ball, we're leaving on a tour of the best renewable installations in Europe. Sam and his wife, Will and Julie, Taylor Carter and I. It was supposed to be five days, but we're up to seven already. Skydd will be covering our security, but of course you're welcome to review the arrangements."

John nodded as he pulled his jacket on. "I'll look at tactical. Finch can run backgrounds. Anything in particular got you worried?"

"No. And Julie knows her way around a security detail. But I figured you're snoop anyhow, so we might as well be above-board about it."

"You know me so well." He gestured toward the case board. "I gotta go. Anything else?" He tucked his phone away and picked up his earpiece.

"I'm going to meet Carl Elias tomorrow," she announced calmly.

Reese didn't answer. His jaw tightened and he raised an eyebrow.

"We're going to do six installations here in the city," Christine continued. "Construction doesn't get done without the mob."

"What time?"

"Eleven-thirty. Crown Heights."

"I'll pick you up at quarter of."

"Anthony's vouched for my safe return."

"Of course he has." John smirked. "See you in the morning." He strode out.

Christine sighed ruefully.

"You must have expected that response," Finch ventured.

"I actually expected a lot worse." She turned toward the board. "Can I help?"

"Probably not. This is one of those cases that Mr. Reese and I intervene in only grudgingly." He stood, moved to the board, and pointed to the pictures one at a time. "This is Mr. Tysen. This is his wife. And his girlfriend. And his other girlfriend. And his other girlfriend."

"Ahhhh."

"The ladies have learned about each other's relationship to Tysen, and they have decided to pool their funds and hire this gentleman, Mr. Ericks, to, and I quote, _break his damned arms and legs_."

She hummed thoughtfully. "I understand in _theory_ that that is wrong."

Finch snorted. "We are acting only because Mr. Ericks has no formal experience as an enforcer, which leads to several unhappy possible outcomes: One, he will go overboard and accidently kill Mr. Tysen; two, that Mr. Tysen may have a weapon and kill Mr. Ericks in self-defense; or three, that there will be collateral damage to innocent bystanders." He shook his head. "It should be a relatively easy situation to resolve. But there is always the possibility of unexpected complication.

"All of which is a much too long way to say, we probably do not require your assistance. But of course you're welcome to stay as long as you wish."

Christine wandered to the next board. "I should get back. I have so much to catch up on. But my brain's kinda … running out of RAM."

"You need some time to compile."

"Mmmm."

"How are the kittens?"

"Just dropped them off at the vet. They're stable enough to be spayed and neutered, respectively. They're not going to be happy."

"Entirely necessary." He rested his fingertips on his keyboard. "Might I take you shopping again?"

She cocked her head, puzzled.

"For the Chairman's Ball."

"Oh. I do have money of my own, you know."

"I am aware, yes." It went without saying that he was able to determine exactly how much money in a few keystrokes; they both understood that.

"I thought I'd wear the gold dress."

Finch smiled to himself, pleased. "An excellent choice. It will need a bit of alteration."

She nodded wearily.

"You look tired. Are you not sleeping well?"

"I keep dreaming that I'm still running. It's exhausting."

"Perhaps you could …" Finch began. His computer chirped. "Excuse me a moment."

Mr. Ericks, the man hired to rough up the cheating husband/boyfriend, had just purchased six rolls of quarters from a bodega. "Classic," Reese commented over the comm, when Finch passed this development on to him. "Did he buy socks, too?"

"Socks?"

"Stuff the rolled coins into a doubled-up sock, you can beat the hell out of someone without leaving any distinguishing marks – or messing up your knuckles."

"Delightful." From the corner of his eye, he saw Christine pick up a book at random and flop onto the battered leather couch.

"At least he didn't buy a gun," Reese offered.

"As far as we know."

"Where's he headed now?"

Finch spent a little time tracking the man and relaying the information to his partner. Then he looked into the man's background. He located an ex-wife and two young children. Ericks was behind on child support; his wages were being garnished. That likely explained why a man who had previously only been charged with misdemeanors was willing to step up to felony assault.

He continued to gather information about the man until Reese had the subject in sight.

When he got a moment to look up, Christine was asleep.

He nodded in satisfaction and returned his attention to preventing a crime in process.

* * *

Susan Holsey swore quietly as she climbed the emergency stairs of the hotel with the jug of Pot Perm under her arm. "This is freaking ridiculous."

"Why don't you just invite her to join us?" Roy asked, when she was safely locked in the room he was sharing with Luke Stratton. "Would have been a hell of a lot easier."

"I don't trust her." Susan put the bottle of dye down and shook out her hand. "There's something not right about her."

"Woman's intuition," Luke said firmly.

"Maybe. Maybe I'm just paranoid. You get the pumps?"

He nodded. He'd taken Susan's room key and snuck away from the dinner while Moira was glued to Susan's side. They had been trying for most of the day to shake her, but the newcomer was determined to be part of the group.

"I think she's just lonely," Dick offered.

"Maybe you should go keep her company."

"Yeah, my wife would love that."

"Whatever," Susan said. "Let's just get this done before she comes looking for us." She picked up the bottle and went into the bathroom. "Bring the pumps.

Luke got the plastic Guest Laundry bag from the closet and spread it on the country next to the sink. Susan put a hand towel down next to it and brought out one of the pumps. "Standard fill tube," she said, showing them how the fat cylinder at the top of the screwed off. "And a valve cap." She pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then opened the Pot Perm. Nelson put on his own gloves and held the tubes as she filled them. The very small amounts she spilled were caught by the plastic.

"But how does the trigger work?" Roy asked.

"See the phone-looking thing? Slide the wifi button to _on_ and your smart phone should be able to pair with it. The access number is on each of the pumps. Pair your phone, send any text to the number on your pump, and the dye releases."

"That is clever as shit," Luke said.

Susan nodded, concentrating on the task at hand. She and Martin had spent hours on it, and more hours on the internet, figuring it out. Such a simple thing, really, but the details were tricky. Her husband had planned for it to make engineers' lives earlier; they'd be able to release dye remotely while they waited a mile downstream to see if it got through. But Martin was gone, and his wife had a different use for their little devices.

"Can we keep these when we're done?"

"Only if you want to go back for it and to jail."

"I'll send you the plans," Susan promised. "You can build your own."

They filled the rest of the tubes and loaded them, then cleaned up the small mess. There was still three-quarters of a jug of Pot Perm left. "I'll run it down to the maintenance room," Roy offered. "They use the same kind, I'll just stick it in the back and they'll think they missed it."

"I'm gonna need to leave my pump here," Susan said. "Moira will be all over it."

"She's not that bad," Dick offered. "Just lonely."

"Whatever. We're going to have to figure out how to ditch her so we can do this."

"Y'know," Luke said slowly, "Romine's the one that stuck us with her. Seems like we can find a way for him to distract her."

The others looked at him curiously.

"I'm thinking, some kind of site-tour decoy," he continued. "Let me work on it."

"Good." Susan carefully put the pumps back in the box and handed them to Roy. "We're good to go."


	10. Chapter 10

Carl Elias lifted is face toward the sun and closed his eyes for a moment. In another hour it would be too hot, but just now, before noon, it was still pleasant. He had never cared much about the sun on his face, before Rikers. He would not take it for granted again.

It had been a long time since he'd been here. Not since his mother …

Elias opened his eyes, shook his head gently. A long time.

The church hadn't changed much, at least on the outside. Our Lady of Sorrows was more than a hundred years old; a few more decades hadn't made much difference to the old stone. The soaring slate roof had been replaced in spots, and one window was obviously new. The side walk beneath his feet had a few more cracks. He remembered a big oak tree in the front lawn; it was gone now. There was a flower bed where the trunk had been, with a statue of the Holy Mother in the center. He remembered when that statue had stood at the back of the church, looking over the parking lot that was also the playground.

An older man in a faded t-shirt squatted on a folding stool, picking weeds and deadheads from the flower bed at the side of the church.

"Boss," Anthony called.

Elias half-turned and watched as a sedan park behind his SUV. He half-expected John Reese to get out. But the woman was alone. Marconi went and opened her car door for her. They hugged quickly and exchanged cheek kisses. Carl watched as his lieutenant's hands skimmed over the woman's back, swift and almost imperceptible. She wore jeans and a loose shirt; there wasn't much chance she was concealing a weapon. But Anthony was always careful, even with an old friend.

He studied the woman as they walked toward him. She was younger than Anthony, rather pretty in a fresh-scrubbed way. Marconi had said they'd been street rats together, until she'd gotten lost to heroin addiction. But she was clean now, he said, and wicked smart, and what she didn't know about computers wasn't worth knowing. Elias had no reason to doubt his lieutenant's assessment.

Christine Scotty Fitzgerald had connections to a number of people Elias was interested in. Detective Carter, for one. Fusco, who couldn't seem to decide if he was crooked or not any more. The late Agent Donnelly. Teeny Bellatore, one of the old dons, who had retired to a vineyard upstate. The psycho who called herself Root, who had made at least two attempts to destroy the city and then vanished. John Reese – Marconi reported that he had swept in like an avenging angel after the Perk incident.

Anthony had told him that she harbored no grand ambitions. A lieutenant by nature. Nothing wrong with that, in Carl's view. A talent like hers might make a good addition to his own organization. The fact that she and Marconi had a long history would be a bonus. She was currently in John Reese's – and by extension, Harold Finch's – camp, but things changed, sometimes rapidly. It was more than worth Elias' time to make her acquaintance, and to maintain it.

So when the young woman had asked, through Anthony, to meet on behalf of her employers, the young Ingram billionaire and his equally wealthy wife, Elias had immediately agreed.

Of course, he kept his interested tightly concealed under a façade of mild indifference.

"Boss," Marconi said, "this is Scotty Fitzgerald. Carl Elias."

Elias shook took her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. "Hello." He added his most non-threatening smile.

"Thank you for meeting me."

"Well. Any friend of Anthony's." He sent another benevolent smile toward his lieutenant, who stood a few yards away.

The young woman nodded toward the church. "It's a beautiful old building."

"It was my mother's parish."

"I don't want to take up too much of your time."

 _Not one for small talk, then._ Elias found that a relief. "What can I do for you?"

"As Anthony's probably told you, I'm working with a new non-profit organization, the Carson-Ingram Renewable Energy Initiative."

"A million windmills," Elias recited with light derision.

Fitzgerald flushed slightly. "Well, a million renewable energy installations, of all kinds. But yes."

"A commendable goal, if somewhat … ambitious." Elias opened his hands. "I understand that Dr. Ingram is quite wealthy. Surely you're not soliciting donations."

"Not cash donations, no." The woman began to walk, very slowly, down the sidewalk, and Elias fell into step beside her. "In addition to the installations, we're committed to funding research and development of new and improved technologies. The whole industry is taking massive strides in efficiency, and we want to support that. To that end, we'd like to develop a dozen test installations in the continental United States, with at least six of them here in New York. That would allow us to swap out the installations quickly and evaluate them in real-world conditions. We would cover all costs for set-up and maintenance, and the facilities that house the installations would get the full benefit of the energy generated."

Elias made a thoughtful noise. They were at the side of the church now, even with the gardener. The older man glanced up at them, grimaced, then ignored them. "Reasonable, I suppose. But what does that have to do with me?"

She glanced at Marconi. "It's our understanding that construction projects in the city go much more smoothly with under your countenance."

 _Countenance._ It was a wonderfully diplomatic term. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I am a simple local businessman."

"A businessman with in-depth knowledge of the inner workings of the city," Scotty countered evenly. "One who is able to facilitate our projects. Or hinder them."

He liked this woman, Elias decided. Her straightforward yet diplomatic turn of phrase was a pleasant surprise. "Assuming that my facilitation abilities are as great as you suggest – and I'm not for a moment saying that they are – those services are generally provided at a fee."

"Of course. And we're willing to pay that fee, if necessary. But I thought I would first appeal to your sense of civic engagement."

"Civic … hmmm."

"We understand you're interested in rehabilitating your reputation as a businessman. Your cooperation with our projects would give you an opportunity to display your commitment to the betterment of the neighborhoods."

Elias gave her another little smile. "Of course, it would only do my reputation good if that cooperation was _known_."

Scotty nodded. "We would of course let it be known that we approached you and asked for special dispensation. And express our appreciation."

 _Oh, she was good. She and her people were asking for a free pass, but they were_ _asking_ _. Showing proper respect. The way it was done in the old days. Probably something she'd learned from Bellatore._ Ingram had all the money in the world. But he hadn't sent this woman to try to push him around, or even to play her friendship with Marconi. He'd sent her to kiss Carl's ring.

He wondered what Harold thought about this. Or John.

For the first time, he wondered if they knew she was here.

 _But yes._ A charitable organization, asking for his countenance, as she so nicely phrased it. He could let it be known that they had asked respectfully and he had agreed – for the good of the community – without damaging his organization, without showing weakness.

Also, Bruce thought renewable energy was going to be a high-profit field, very soon. Letting this windmill-tilting billionaire to do on-site research for him was not a bad idea.

He glanced at Marconi, who cocked one eyebrow. _Whatever you think, Boss._

"You make a very reasonable request," Elias allowed. "I think perhaps we could come to some agreement. But I need a bit more than good will."

"What did you have in mind?"

He gestured to the church building. "Make this church one of your sites."

"Can't be done," she replied immediately.

Elias stopped walking and turned towards her, surprised by her bluntness. "And we were getting along so well."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. It's not up to me."

"Then perhaps you should consult with your boss before you refuse out of hand."

" _My_ bosses would have no problem with your suggestion, I promise." She gestured toward the church building. " _Their_ bosses, on the other hand, have a big problem with it."

 _Yes_ , Carl conceded inwardly, biting back on his dark anger, he supposed it was possible that the Church would balk at his involvement …

"The church building faces south. For peak efficiency, solar installations would have to be mounted on the front of the roof. Because the building is historic, the Archdiocese is not willing to discuss that sort of alteration. I know, because I wanted to do the same thing at my old home parish. I couldn't even get through the door. So unless you've got the juice to jack the Archbishop – and if you do, please don't tell me – the church building is a non-starter. I'm sorry."

Elias looked at the building for a long moment. The ancient gray stones, the elaborate architecture. _Of course._

"But I can propose an alternative," the woman continued. She gestured to the parochial school beyond the church parking lot. "We could do the installation _there_ , on the school roof. It's far enough back that the church doesn't cast a shadow. The roof is flat, and the architecture is historically insignificant. The Archdiocese has no problem with our contributing capital improvements. And, in the event of a blackout or other emergency, the school is much more suitable as an emergency shelter. Classrooms provide for some privacy, there are adequate bathrooms and cooking facilities – and ten foot high ceiling are a lot easier to heat or cool than cathedral ceilings."

"You knew what I was going to ask for," Elias observed, mollified and amused.

"When you asked me to meet you here, I had a pretty good idea."

He stared at the school, considering.

"We could add a greenhouse," Christine suggested quietly.

"A greenhouse?"

"On the roof. They could use it to teach about earth science, basic biology. And they could grow fresh produce for the cafeteria."

"And flowers?" Elias asked. "For the church?"

For the first time the woman seemed surprised. "And flowers, sure."

"My mother liked fresh flowers in the church."

"We could put her name on it," Christine offered immediately. "On the greenhouse."

He took a slow breath. The idea touched him, far more than he could afford to admit. His mother didn't have a memorial. Not a proper one. "I think she would like that," he said slowly. "She would like that very much."

He looked at the woman again. _Street smart,_ Anthony had said, and Elias hadn't quite appreciated what he'd meant. She was good. She was very good. She would be easy to work with. And problematic to work against.

 _She would be a useful addition to his organization …_

He glanced at Anthony.

There was no eyebrow lift. Marconi knew exactly what he was thinking, as always. But this time he didn't agree. Part of that, Elias knew, was her backstory. She'd started on the streets just like his lieutenant had, and she'd gotten herself into an honest life. Anthony admired her for that. But more, he wasn't eager to go up against John and Harold. He would, of course, if Elias asked him to, but he understood how dangerous they were.

Elias agreed with his lieutenant on both counts. For the moment, attempting to recruit the young woman wasn't worth the risks.

But things could always change.

He filed the notion away for future use.

"Marlene," he said evenly. "Marlene Elias. And I'll agree to …ignore … your projects."

"Thank you."

"But. Six projects. That's it. You want to do more than that, we're going to need to have another conversation."

"Of course."

He studied her for another moment. She did not fluster under his gaze. "Well. It's been lovely to meet you."

"And you. Thank you."

He gave her hand a little squeeze again, then turned and walked back toward his car. Anthony hesitated. "You comin'?" he asked the woman.

"I want to get some pictures of the school, give me builder something to start on."

"Okay. See ya."

"Bye, Anthony."

In four more strides, Marconi was by his side. "Okay, Boss?"

"I think that went very well. I can see why you like her."

"She's good people."

"A million windmills. They think they can fix the world."

Marconi snorted.

"Well, maybe they can." Elias nodded to himself. "I think I need to learn more about this industry. It sounds like it may become important."

They got in the car. Carl looked back at the young woman. She was standing in the middle of the mostly-empty parking lot, taking pictures with her phone.

"Let's go around the block, shall we?"

Marconi glanced over at him, surprised, but he didn't argue.

* * *

Christine walked back up the sidewalk. She paused beside the man pulling weeds. "Mr. Kostmayer, I presume?"

The older man squinted at her. He pulled his gloves off and stood up. "Call me Mickey."

"Scotty Fitzgerald. But you knew that."

"Yeah. The running girl." She was visibly surprised. "I might have been, uh, holding your friends at gunpoint when you called."

"They do meet the most interesting people."

Kostmayer shrugged. "They said to tell you they had a number. That you'd know what that meant."

"I don't need a babysitter."

He nodded after the departed mobster. "He's a killer, you know."

"Technically speaking so am I."

"You killed a man. He's a killer. There's a difference."

She sighed. "Can I buy you lunch?"

"That'd be great." He threw his gloves down, abandoned the stool and the little pile of weeds, and followed her to her car.

* * *

"Well," Marconi said.

Beside him, Elias grunted as they watched the woman and the gardener drive away. "A sensible precaution. We have given them some reason to distrust us in the past."

"I said she'd be safe."

"You said I'd be safe, too," Elias pointed out. "And I still brought _you_ along." He nodded, satisfied. "This tells us that she's important to them. To John, at least, and where there is John there is Harold. That may be a useful bit of knowledge, for future reference."

After a minute, his lieutenant said, "I guess."

Marconi liked the woman, very much. But that affection would not stop him from carrying our any orders Elias gave regarding her in the future. He nodded again. "Lunch?"

Anthony brightened. "I could eat."


	11. Chapter 11

" _Another_ Number, Finch?" Reese grumbled as he came back into the library. He knew there wasn't really any point in complaining. Harold didn't determine how often the Machine dumped cases into their laps. But it seems like they were back-to-back lately, followed by days of uninterrupted downtime. It was irritating. He wished the all-knowing AI was better at time management.

Harold sighed and gestured to the board. "Esmerelda Hanover. Widowed, eighty-five years old. In the past five years she has lived in three different countries, but most currently she's residing in …"

"Brooklyn," Reese pronounced, "with her son Dutch."

Finch blinked at him.

"Mother Hanover and I have met," John continued, more happily.

"Well, good," Harold snorted. "Then perhaps you can tell me why someone's trying to kill her. Because whoever it is used _her_ credit card to order ammunition for a handgun, which will presumably be used in her murder."

"Don't know that, but I know someone who might." He pulled out his phone and clicked the speaker button.

Finch stared at him. Reese enjoyed it a little too much.

"Hey, John," Christine said over the phone. And then, "Ow, shit, quit!"

"Kitten issues, Kitten?"

"Just picked them up. Puck thinks I'm a tree. Owww! What do you need?"

"Your friend from the airplane."

"Esmerelda."

"Any idea why someone would want to kill her?"

Christine sighed. "Really?"

"Yes."

Harold moved closer to the phone. "Did she say anything about any enemies, threats, anything of that nature?"

"Her daughter-in-law hates her," Reese supplied.

"The feeling's mutual," Christine added. "They've hated each other for thirty-plus years."

"And perhaps the mother moving into the son's house has set off the daughter-in-law?" Finch mused.

"Well, maybe," she answered. "But, uh, one of the things we talked about was Esmeralda's husband left her quite a lot of money – she wasn't even sure how much – and she hadn't changed her will since he died. Fourteen years ago. So I, um, gave her my attorney's phone number."

"She's changing her will and Peggy found out." Reese nodded grimly. "We're going to need you to talk to her."

"Okay. Oww."

"I'll come pick you up."

"I'll go," Finch said. To Reese's raised eyebrow, he continued, "If you recognize her from the airport, she'll likely recognize you."

John sighed. "I'll wait in the car. On the way, I need you to find out where Peggy is."

* * *

Reese was used to driving while Finch coaxed data out of the ether in the passenger seat. But having Christine in the back seat with her own laptop was new. He understood about a third of the technical crosstalk between them; he was pretty sure they were showing off for each other. Geek flirting. He stayed out of it.

By the time he got his brilliant passengers to Brooklyn, Finch had determined that Peggy Hanover was at work at the front desk of a used car dealership, and that her husband Dutch was also at work. Christine had learned that while Esmeralda had met with her attorney, she had not yet updated her will. The lawyer's office was executing asset discovery for the elderly woman. "They need to find out what money she had," Finch interpreted, "and where."

"Which probably means that she had _quite_ a lot of money," Reese added.

"She travels extensively," Christine provided, "and she said she never worries about paying."

"So Peggy wants to bump her off before she loses her cut."

"Perhaps." Finch leaned to peer past Reese at the utterly unexceptional frame house across the street. He produced an earwhig from his jacket pocket, handed it to Christine, and then installed his own. "Harold Rooke. Private investigator."

"Working for Farrar?"

"Yes."

They got out of the car.

"I'm right here," Reese reminded them. "Any sign of trouble, just speak up."

Christine smirked. "Do we have a safe word?"

"Chrysanthemum," Finch provided, "but you have to spell it correctly."

She laughed. As she crossed the street, John could hear her muttering over the comm. "C-H-R-Y-S-A-N … shit."

"Close enough," he assured her.

* * *

The wood planks for the porch were freshly painted, but they creaked with age as Harold and Christine crossed to the door. She rang the doorbell. Finch looked up and down the street as they waited. It was a nice-enough neighborhood, crowded and a little down-at-heel. The houses were old, but there were little lawns, chairs on porches. People likely knew their neighbors here.

Inside the house there was movement, quiet and slow. "Coming!" a female voice called.

He glanced at Christine. She was alert but calm, her hands loose and open at her sides. He wasn't sure if she was deliberately mimicking John's _ready_ stance or if it was subconscious. Either way, he hated it. _Entirely irrational._ On Reese it was reassuring. On Christine it only served as a reminder that he was leading her into a potentially dangerous situation.

But the situation was only _potentially_ dangerous. He knew their most likely suspect was at work, miles away. He had hacked into the office's cameras and seen her at her desk. Logically, there was nothing to worry about.

Logically, he was reasonably certain there was only a little old woman behind the door, shuffling softly toward them.

Logically, he knew that John Reese could cross the street and the lawn, climb the stairs and be in the house in ten long strides.

Illogically, he wanted very badly to send Christine back to the car, away from even the remotest potential danger.

Harold took a deep breath, checked his cuffs, exhaled.

"Coming!" a woman called again. The doorknob rattled, and then the door cracked open. "Hello?"

"Esmerelda. It's Christine. From the airplane."

"Oh." The woman opened the door fully. "Oh, hello, dear. Hello. How nice! Did we plan to get together today? Did I forget?"

"No, I'm sorry, I should have called. But there's something we need to talk to you about, right away."

Esmeralda frowned at her. "You're not going to ask me for money, are you?"

"No. I promise." Christine gestured. "This is Harold Rooke. He's a private investigator. He works with Farrar."

"My attorney?"

"Yes. He needs to talk to you."

"Oh." The elderly woman still hesitated. "I paid him his retainer. I'm all current."

"It's not about money," Harold assured her. "Not about any money that you _owe_ , at any rate."

"Oh. Well. Come in, then. Come in. Would you like some lemonade? It's not quite cold yet. I just made some fresh. That selfish cow drank all the batch that I made yesterday. And she didn't even bother to wash the pitcher. That _woman_!"

"Thirteen million," Esmeralda said, when they were settled around the kitchen table with beverages. "Can you imagine?"

"That's a lot," Christine answered.

"And he's still counting. So it's more than that. My goodness. I knew there was money. But I never dreamed it was quite that much. I can't thank you enough for recommending that young man. He's very young, for an attorney, isn't he? And of course he's, you know, dark-ish. But he's very nice, and he seems quite thorough. I'm very pleased."

"That's good to hear. He's always done good work for me."

"He's getting a list together, finding all the money – the assets – and then we'll work out a new will. Or a … trust, he said. Something newfangled like that." She looked at Harold. "Is that what you're here about? The trust? Or the great money treasure hunt?"

"Neither, actually." Harold sipped his lemonade. "This is very good. Thank you." He put his glass down. "Mrs. Hanover, do you know if anyone in this household owns a gun?"

"A gun?"

"Yes. Specifically a handgun. A .32 caliber. That would be somewhat smaller than …"

The older woman bristled. "I know what a .32 looks like. Why would you ask a thing like that?"

"Since you met with Farrar and talked about changing your will," Christine said, "someone in this house ordered ammunition for a handgun. With your credit card."

"Oh, yes." Esmerelda seemed unsurprised but puzzled.

"We're concerned for your safety."

"We thought, perhaps, with the animosity between you and your daughter-in-law …" Harold began.

"Oh, I see. Aren't you sweet? But there's nothing to worry about. I know all about handling a handgun. I'm quite a crack shot, actually. I'll be just fine."

" _You_ ordered the ammunition?" Christine asked.

"Yes, dear."

"And you have the weapon?" Harold prompted.

"Well, goodness, what good would the ammunition do me if I didn't have the gun?" Esmeralda shook her head. "It's Dutch's gun, actually. He had it hidden away in the basement. I doubt he even remembers he has it. But I knew where it was." Esmerelda shook her head. "But I couldn't find any ammunition. I looked everywhere. I don't think he has any. So I ordered it. On the internet. Who knew you could do such a thing? Of course they won't ship it to the house because we're in the city. I had to arrange for a delivery. _And_ I had to buy a whole box, even though I only need two or three bullets. My goodness, to think of paying for that whole box just to have most of it go to waste. But they were quite determined that there was just no other way. They're not even supposed to deliver it, you know. But I explained that I was an elderly woman and they said they would – for a fee, of course. I don't know what this world is coming to. Charging a poor old woman for such a simple thing."

"So you … plan to use the gun to defend yourself?" Finch asked. "From Peggy?"

"If I need to, I suppose. But I can't really imagine that simp raising her hand against me. Poisoning my son's mind against me is more her style."

"Then why …"

"Once my will is all settled, I'm going to shoot my useless daughter-in-law."

* * *

Reese was out of the car before he heard Finch say _Oh dear_ over the comm. But he slowed when he reached the sidewalk, and stopped with his foot on the bottom porch step. The old woman might have the intent to harm – but she didn't have the ammunition yet. He didn't need to break down the door. At least not right this minute.

Before he could retreat, a small white pick-up truck slowed, then stopped in the street in front of the house.

Reese kept his hands down at his side, but he flexed his fingers and roll his neck just a little as he walked toward the truck.

"Help you?" John said.

"You live here?" the driver of the truck asked. "Looking for Esmeralda Hanover."

"My grandma. You got a package for her? She said I should keep an eye out for one."

"Yeah." He started to hand Reese a small white box, then pulled it back "Forty bucks. We're, uh, we're really not supposed to deliver. But she said she was home-bound, so ..."

"She is, pretty much." John fished three twenties out of his wallet and handed them to the driver. "Get yourself some lunch. You just saved me three hours of driving around with Grandma in the car."

The driver handed over the package and drove off.

Reese watched him off the block, then walked back to the car. He put the ammo on the seat beside him and tapped his earpiece. "I've got the package," he said quietly.

Finch grunted in response.

"Now see if you can get the gun."

* * *

"… you'll go to jail, for one thing," Christine argued.

"An old lady like me? I don't hear very well, you know. I was afraid she was a burglar. I got confused." Esmeralda shrugged, her eyes deliberately wide and vague. "And even if they do send me to jail, my dear, I'm so old. It would only be a year or so anyhow. And I would enjoy every minute of it, knowing that that witch won't get my money."

"And what about Dutch?" Finch countered.

"Oh, he'll be fine. Maybe he'll even meet someone who actually keeps a _nice_ house for him." She looked around dismissively.

"And the boys? Your grandsons?"

"They're nearly grown. They'll be fine."

"They won't," Christine said firmly. "They will live their whole lives knowing that their grandmother murdered their mother."

"To protect their inheritance!"

"Doing it for money just makes it worse. Esmeralda, listen to me." Christine leaned forward. "If you do this, you will wound them more deeply than you can possibly imagine. And they won't have anyone to help them through it. Dutch will be just as wounded, and you'll be in jail. They'll be on their own. They will have to grow up right there on the spot, and whatever's left of their childhood will be gone. Gone."

Finch dug his fingers into his own thighs to keep from reaching for her. He had worried about physical danger, but he hadn't anticipated this: That she would have to summon the memories of her own childhood to protect these boys. The wounds of her past, so recently torn open, had only just begun to heal, and now she was unhesitatingly tearing them open again.

He could hear Reese's distressed breathing in his ear.

The old woman was unconvinced. "Oh, I don't know if …"

" _I_ know," Christine said firmly. "I have been there. I have been _exactly_ there. When you lose a m—a parent in your teens, it rips your whole life apart. And when it's by violence – I _know_ , Esmeralda. If you love your grandsons as much as you say you do—"

"Of course I love them!"

"Then let them have their lives the way they're supposed to be. Let them have their parents. Their mother. Because if you do this you change everything for them. And none of it in a good way."

"But they'll have money. Lots of money."

"There are ways to protect your money," Finch said quickly. "You can set up a trust so that the money's held until the boys are twenty-five, or thirty-five, or whatever age you decide."

"I want them to go to college."

"That can be provided for."

"And I watch Dutch to have _some_ …"

"It can be arranged," Finch assured her. "There's probably nothing that can keep Dutch from sharing his money with his wife, but it can be a set amount, an allowance, so she can't get to all of it. I promise you, there are things that Farrar can do. Legal ways, that your daughter-in-law can't undo. You can be certain that the people you care about are taken care of."

"But if you kill Peggy," Christine said, "then nothing good happens for any of them. Even if they get the money, every dime they spend they will think, _this is the money that my grandmother killed my mother for_. It's not worth it, Esmeralda."

The old woman stared at her half-empty glass, her mouth in a tight unhappy line. "I don't see how it's any of your business," she finally said.

"We're trying to stop you from making a terrible mistake," Finch answered.

"But it's _my_ mistake …"

"It's a mistake that you won't pay the consequences for," Christine snapped. "If you kill Peggy, your son and your grandsons will pay for it for the rest of their lives."

There was silence for another moment. "You are a dear, but I don't think you really know …"

"Esmeralda. Listen to me. My father was killed when I was fourteen years old. And when we met this summer, I was coming home from _finally_ being able to spread his ashes and let him go. Everything I've done, my whole adult life, every choice I made, every mistake, was because of his death. I know what I'm talking about. You do not want this for your grandsons. Not when there's a perfectly legal option. You do _not_."

"You certainly are bossy."

Christine nodded. "I'll be as bossy as I have to be to stop you."

"I suppose you want the gun."

"Yes, please," Finch said quickly.

The old woman sighed. "I doubt Dutch will miss it. I think he forgot he ever had it." She gestured to the cupboard under the sink. "There. In the dish cloth, on the left."

Christine went and opened the little door. She took the weapon and the floral towel and stood up. "Not much of a hiding place."

"There's nothing under there but cleaning supplies," Esmeralda answered. "I knew Peggy would never look there."

"Thank you."

"If your Mr. Farrar can't set things up the way you said, I'm going to want that back."

Christine cradled the gun against her chest. "We'll talk about it."

* * *

Reese opened the back car door for Christine as she crossed the street. She handed him the towel-wrapped weapon. He gave it a quick glance. Old, dull, probably traceable. He was generally in favor of holding weapons in reserve, but this one needed to be permanently lost. He got into the driver's seat and tucked it down next to the unopened ammo.

Finch got in the passenger side. "Nicely done," Reese said. "Not a wounded kneecap in sight."

"True. I'm glad Ms. Hanover was willing to be reasonable. Eventually." He turned to look over the seat at Christine. "Chocolate? Liquor? Both?"

"Actually, I need to get back. The Solar Sunflower people are coming in for a meeting." She spoke as if she were perfectly fine, as if explaining the great grief of her life to a virtual stranger had been simple and painless. As if she were unaffected.

"The what?" John asked.

"Solar Sunflowers. They're pretty much exactly what they sound like. Only big. Six to twenty feet across. Experimental. But interesting."

Reese met her eyes in the rear view for a second. She opened her laptop and looked away. He glanced at Finch. The genius raised a single eyebrow, just a fraction. He was unconvinced, too. But there was nothing to be done. John swung the car out of the parking spot. "Okay."

He dropped his hand onto the hard steel wrapped in floral terrycloth and reminded himself that they'd done good.


	12. Chapter 12

"Have you hurt yourself?" Finch asked.

Will Ingram raised an eyebrow. "No, why?" His uncle gestured across the table at his arm, and he laughed. "Oh, that. No." He pulled up his sleeve to reveal a series of numbers, letters and symbols written on his forearm in red Sharpie. "It's my password. _Today's_ password. I get a new one every day now."

"Ahh." Finch stabbed a cherry tomato off his plate. "I sense Miss Fitzgerald's work here."

"She was not impressed with our network security."

"I'm not sure _that_ ," Harold gestured toward the hidden writing with his fork, "is quite what she had in mind."

"It won't work without the dongle anyhow."

"The …?"

"Dongle. It's a little electronic thing, like a remote car key. It has to be close enough to the device, and then the right password has to be entered."

"And where is your, er, dongle now?"

Will reached for his jacket pocket, then stopped. "Ummm … back at the office. I think."

Harold smiled gently. _Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry. You have your work cut out for you, teaching Will security basics. I'm probably to blame somehow._

"At least I hope it's in the office. Scotty said if I lost another one she was just going to put a chip in my ass."

"Well, at least you could keep track of it then."

"True. But you should have heard the debate that idea kicked up. Why it was a good idea for people with mental impairment who might wander, why it was a bad idea because it was subject to hacking and surveillance, and what about children and what about privacy … the three of them just make my head spin sometimes."

"Three?"

"Scotty, Julie, Taylor."

"Ah. Taylor's working out, then?"

"He's great. Smart. And he thinks ahead. He sees big picture, and then all the parts that are needed to make it work. Like, big picture, details, big picture, details. You know?"

"He sounds a bit like your father."

Will considered. "I suppose." He paused while the waitress brought their entrees. "Wouldn't it be wild if it turns out twenty years from now Taylor's the next tech billionaire?"

"It could happen," Harold agreed. "Never underestimate the power of a little well-timed guidance to alter the course of a life."

They ate quietly for a moment. "Been a long time," Will said. "Since we just had lunch, the two of us. It's nice."

"It is." He cut his steak and took a bite. It was, as expected, perfect.

"So what did you want to ask me about?"

Finch finished chewing his bite and took a sip of water before he spoke. "Library books."

"Oh, God, did I have some overdue books from middle school or something?"

"I would not be at all surprised."

"Me, either."

"A few years back the New York Public Library System closed a number of its branches. They declared them economically unsustainable." He scowled, then continued. "One of my clients purchased a number of the properties as a real estate investment. Now he's beginning development on one of them and he's looking for a place to donate the existing books. We've often discussed my fondness for books, so he thought I would perhaps offer a suggestion or two."

"Oh." Will considered very briefly. And then, "The reservation …"

"Precisely what I was thinking," Finch answered. "I remembered what you'd said about the state of their school library."

"And then you sent them ten cases of books."

"Well. Literacy is my _thing_ , as they say."

Will thought for a long moment. "This guy wants to donate a whole library full of books?"

"Roughly fourteen thousand volumes."

"We'd have to find a way to get them there."

"My client would be willing to donate the cost of packing and shipping the books."

"That's … insanely generous."

"Not really." Finch cut another bite, but finished his answer before he put it in his mouth. "He has to clear the space somehow. He can pay to have the books hauled to a landfill and disposed of there, or for roughly the same expense he can donate them, allowing him to take that cost as a tax deduction, and he can also write off the value of the books."

"Makes sense." Will thought about it. "We'd planned to build three community centers around our renewable installations. Kind of a gym/auditorium, meeting spaces, maybe a day care. And a computer center. If we re-drew the plans and stuck a library on the side of each of them … they could rotate the books, set up a system … we'd need to store them until the construction is done …"

"I assume you'll need to consult with the tribal council."

"Absolutely. But they're already on board with the centers, so …" Will nodded thoughtfully. "That would be fantastic, Uncle Harold."

"The book stock is older, of course. The branches closed a number of years ago."

"Old books are better than no books."

"Good. I'll let me client know we're looking into it."

"I'm surprised you're not just taking them all home with you. The books."

Harold smiled ruefully. "I will undoubtedly keep one or two from the stacks."

"One or two."

"Maybe three."

Will nodded in skeptical amusement.

"And what did you want to see _me_ about?" Finch asked.

"Me? Nothing."

Harold returned his skeptical amused nod.

"Everything's fine," Will protested. "I mean, busy as hell, but in a good way. Everything's great."

"So you're not worried about something?"

"Not a thing."

Finch nodded again. "Perhaps I'm imagining things."

They ate in silence for a full minute before the younger man blurted, "Julie."

"Ah. The baby?"

"No. Yes, but no, the baby's fine, Julie's fine. It's just, this trip, after the ball. It started out to be five days. Now we're up to eleven days, fourteen countries. And we have seven more invitations. And some of them are official state invitations – Germany wants us to meet with their energy secretary, Norway offered us an official tour – it would be great for the company, for the cause."

"Of course." When Will didn't continue, Finch prompted, "But Julie is very pregnant."

"She's decided to stay home."

Finch waited.

"She's fine, everything's fine, but we drove up to see Mom last week and Julie was pretty miserable just sitting in the car for an hour. So a trans-Atlantic flight, even on a private jet …" He shook his head. "And I get it. I totally agree. And when it was five days it was no big deal. Not we're probably looking at three weeks …"

Harold half-listened to his nephew, half to the idea that was already blooming in his mind.

"… Mom offered to stay with her, but Julie doesn't want that, and she sure as hell doesn't want to go stay with _her_ folks … and I know, we have security downstairs 24/7, and Scotty's going to rig up a panic button, so if anything goes really wrong they'll be right there. It's just …"

"You don't want her to be lonely," Finch suggested.

Will nodded. "And Julie says, and I get it, that she'd really like some time on her own, just to putter around and wash baby clothes and whatever, she just wants to get things settled the way she wants them and not bother with anyone else right now, I get that. But …"

"But you're her husband and it's your first child and you're worried."

"Exactly." He waved his fork as he continued. "About the stupid little stuff. Whether she ate lunch and whether she needs, I don't know, soap for the dishwasher and … the stuff that she won't ask for help with."

"I'll certainly make it a point to stop by and check on her, if you like."

"I would. Thanks." He shook his head. "I don't know. I think we should put off the whole trip, but when I suggested it Julie got really pissed off. She says she's not sick, she's just pregnant and she's fully capable of taking care of herself and she doesn't need a babysitter I _know_ that, but …"

"I may have a solution," Finch said slowly. "Let me consult with Miss Fitzgerald before I make any promises, but I think I have a suggestion that would satisfy both of you."

Ingram cocked his head. "What is it?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow. But trust me. If it can be arranged, it will put your mind at ease without unduly upsetting your wife."

"That would be great." Will smiled. "I didn't actually think you'd come up with an answer, but you asked, so …"

"Sometimes it just takes a fresh set of eyes." Finch nodded to himself. Normally he would have to think up an approach, an angle – but in this case, he already knew that simply asking was the best choice. He didn't see why she would refuse.

Harold smiled across the table. His nephew, his mind already at ease, began to eat with hearty enjoyment.

* * *

Root honestly enjoyed the daily scuffle, brief as it was. If she couldn't be flirting with Shaw, having a little hand-to-hand combat with four to six large well-trained men was a reasonable substitute. She used the opportunity to learn each of their weaknesses. If the tube feedings went on another week or two, she could probably best some of them. It wouldn't have taken that long if that bitch Control hadn't kept changing the composition of the team every time.

On the other hand, Root had to admit that she was taking some damage, not just from the twice-daily fights but from the procedure. She was hungry all the time. That had stopped after the first forty-eight hours of her hunger strike, but now that she was getting regular nutrition, her hunger never seemed to stop. It was bearable, but annoying. Worse, though, was that she never seemed to be completely clear of her sedation. Control's guys had to sedate her every time, and keep her under until the feed had moved past her stomach so she couldn't throw it up. That wasn't awful; being unconscious made the time pass more quickly. But by the time it wore off completely it was nearly feeding time again. Root's brain felt sluggish, muddy. She'd lost track of time, and struggled even to know what day it was. Plus she was so doped that she couldn't manage her in-cell work-out.

Physically and mentally she was losing her edge.

She knew the Machine was looking for a way to reach her. She had to be ready. Peak ready, all the time.

The next time the men came in, grim and ready to fight, she sat up on her bunk, smiled brightly, and said, "Again? You know what? Tell Control I'd like a ham sandwich instead. And I promise to eat every bite."

The men hesitated. Then they retreated, carefully, and locked the door.

Root settled back and stared at the ceiling. "I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I make for you," she whispered to her ever-watching love.

* * *

Finch looked up when Christine came out of the dressing room, but she seemed embarrassed, so he looked away without comment.

That one glance was all he'd needed. The gold dress – the feminine equivalent of a power suit - had once fit her body but not suited her. She had been then just a little too young for it. Now it suited her perfectly, the power of the garment matched by the power in her bearing – but it no longer fit her.

The seamstress clucked her tongue. "Why did you buy this dress so big?"

Finch kept his eyes on his phone, carefully averted. "She's lost weight."

"She didn't need to lose weight."

"She's been in mourning. Her father." He did not add that her father had died more than a decade before. It didn't matter. Christine had still been in mourning.

The older woman hesitated. "Well," she said, more mildly. "I see." And then, "I doubt that your father would want you to starve yourself, would he?"

"No, Ma'am."

"Well." The woman set about measuring, marking and pinning.

Finch pretended to fuss with his phone for a few more minutes. When he looked up, Christine met his eyes in the mirror. She smiled wryly. "I'm okay," she assured him.

"Of course you are."

He watched the seamstress work for a moment more. Then, unable to help himself, he stood up and stepped closer. "Don't you think the shoulders need to come up, here?"

The woman looked at him and tutted behind her teeth – but she pinned the shoulders up a bit higher.

Christine giggled, but stood patiently still.

* * *

"Now what?" Christine asked, back in her regular clothes, in the car.

"I have a surprise for you."

"Is it chocolate?"

He grinned briefly. "No. Although we could certainly add that to our agenda, if you like. It would please your seamstress."

Christine settled back, content to watch the city go by. Finch nodded to himself, pleased with his little plan. There were empty boxes in the trunk of the car. They would take as long as they needed, and then dinner somewhere. And over dinner he could talk to her about –

"Oh, dear."

"What's wrong?"

"It is the oddest thing," Harold admitted. "I very rarely make the same mistake twice. I pride myself on learning from my errors. And yet here I am, on the brink of forgetting a lesson I should have learned." He glanced over at her. "I am not sure what it is about you, sweet Deidre, that makes me inclined to such carelessness."

She shrugged. "People let their guard down with me."

That, Finch admitted to himself, was quite true. Detective Fusco certainly did, and Joss Carter, to a lesser extent. Their respective sons, completely. Will Ingram, of course, but he never had much guard to begin with. Julie, his vastly more cautious wife, had been won over. The dangerous Anthony Marconi, and the retired Don Bellatore. Even dour serious Agent Donnelly had relaxed – marginally – in her presence.

And John Reese, of course. The man who lived in his armor dropped it at the door of Christine Fitzgerald's affection.

"So what mistake are you in the midst of making?" she prompted gently.

"I am taking you to a library," Finch admitted. "And I need to ask for a favor. But I nearly forgot to make it clear that the library is not in any way contingent on the favor."

"Hmmm." She seemed skeptical, but also fairly amused. "Do you have another lair? A second Bat Cave?"

"No. It's just a library."

"But it's still full of books, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay. What's the favor?"

"That's a bit complicated." Finch frowned.

"I love getting to peek into your complicated mind, Random."

"In actuality, I need you to ask _me_ for a favor." He nodded to himself. "Your kittens have become increasingly domesticated. But if you leave them alone for an extended period of time without consistent human contact – say, for three weeks, while you're away on your grand tour, even if someone comes in to feed them and clean their litter box, that's not at all the same as having someone there with them. It's likely that they'll revert to their more feral state."

"You want to borrow the kittens?"

"Not precisely. I think they would find the library disorienting, and I'm not sure we could rely on Smokey's maternal instincts. She might maul them as rivals sooner than nurture them."

"True."

"I was thinking, rather, that someone should stay in your guest room while you were away. For the sake of the kittens."

Christine straightened. "Someone like you, perhaps."

"Perhaps, yes."

"And while providing needed companionship for my young cats, you would also, just coincidentally, be conveniently close to Julie Ingram while her husband is away."

"I suppose I would," Harold answered with mild mock surprise.

"She'll see right through it, you know."

"I know. But I think she'll tolerate it, as it's framed."

"She won't really have much of a choice."

"True."

Christine nodded. "Random, would you please stay at my apartment and look after my kittens while I'm gone?"

"I'll have to check my schedule."

"Brat."

"You'll stock the refrigerator with snacks, right?"

"You know, I could probably get Fusco to stay with a lot less hassle."

Finch smiled. "Thank you."

"So tell me about this library that has nothing to do with cat-sitting."

* * *

The air inside the library was stale and still, and smelled of old books and lightly of mildew. Finch stood for a minute, breathing the near-sacred quiet. Libraries had always been like sanctuaries to him.

Beside him, Christine set down the nested stack of empty boxes she'd carried. "It breaks my heart," she said, very quietly.

Finch nodded and set down his own boxes. "The books will be used again. And the building will be put to good use. Even the shelves will find a new home. But the necessity – yes." He touched her hand. "Still, we might as well enjoy one last treasure hunt before it's gone."

Her eyes brightened. She picked up one empty box. "Anything?"

"Anything."

Christine glanced around to get the lay-out, then scampered off with her box, very much a kid in a literary candy shop.

Harold watched her fondly. Then he picked up a box of his own and went to the little reading room just to the left of the circulation desk. The shelves that lined the room were mainly stocked with aging encyclopedias and other reference books. But one wall was full of the oldest, most valuable volumes in the little branch library's collection.

He didn't expect great treasurers there, so much as old friends. He browsed the selection thoughtfully, and found several nice editions of books he did not own. He placed them carefully in his box.

He could take them all, he mused. There would certainly be a cart in the back room somewhere. If necessary he could send men back with a truck to get whatever books he decided to keep. After all, they were just going to be sent to …

Harold paused. He studied the book in his hand. The fine old leather binding, red, engraved. The lovely gilt edges of the pages. It was a beautiful book. The contents scarcely mattered. The fact that there was so beautiful a thing in this world as this book, so artfully bound, firm and solid, was enough to thrill his heart. To hold such an old and ageless volume in his hand made him want to read it and then all its brothers and sisters on the shelves.

And maybe, maybe, if he sent this beautiful book out into the world, another person, younger and more in need of the passion it sparked, would be similarly moved.

With regret and with hope, he put the book back on the shelf. He considered the other volumes he'd chosen and put most of them back as well. The two he retained had duplicates on the shelf.

He browsed quickly through the remainder, selecting only those that the library had more than one copy of. Then he went in search of Christine.

There was no point, he decided, in spoiling _her_ fun. Let her fill a box or two or ten. There would still be plenty of book to send to the reservation. They would not miss a dozen or so.

He found her in the archway between new releases and the children's section. She was perched on the edge of a worn vinyl chair with a worn paperback in her hands. At her feet, her box held only three books. "Not finding anything you like?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, lots." Her cheeks were pink. "I've been taking pictures, so I remember the titles of the ones I want to buy. But," she gestured toward her meager collection, "I realized that the ones I want the most …"

"…are the ones you most want someone else to have," Finch completed.

"Is that silly?"

He tipped his box and showed her the handful of books inside. "Perhaps. But I happen to agree."

Christine laughed, stood up, and kissed his cheek. "It was a lovely idea, Random."

"I didn't think through quite all the way through. I like your idea of collecting titles for books we want to purchase in the future."

"And I have too many books as it is. I don't have anywhere to put them."

"That," Finch said firmly, "is a problem of too few shelves, _not_ of too many books."

"I did find something we need, though. Can I show you?"

"Of course."

She took his hand and led him through the children's section. In the back corner there was an open space with colorful rugs, low chairs, tiny tables, and a scattering of large tattered pillows. It was ringed loosely by adult-sized chairs. Near the window there was a wooden cradle, the pioneer style where the bed sat directly on the rockers so it was very near to the floor. The corners had foam rubber taped over them.

"Cradle books," Christine pronounced. "I've never seen them in an actual cradle before. My little library branch had a big washtub. They taped pool noodles around the rim so kids wouldn't bash their faces on it."

Finch bent and picked up one of the books. It was square and chunky, made of thick cardboard pages, filled with brightly colored pictures of fanciful forest animals and few words. It was made for tiny hands, and, judging by the indentations on the cover, sometimes tiny teeth.

Some of the books in the cradle were slightly larger. Some were made of soft vinyl page. All of them were picture books, made for the smallest of readers.

"There is something uniquely … magic … about seeing a toddle pick out his own books for the first time," Christine said.

"Empowering and encouraging the young reader," Finch agreed. "Will and Julie need one." He considered the cradle. It was plain, faded, but undamaged. A good scrubbing was really all that it needed. "This one?"

"Honestly, the rockers make me a little anxious."

Finch considered the half-circle solid rockers that supported the cradle. "Little toes," he mused.

"Maybe a nice big basket. Something so they don't have to fuss with shelves. Half the fun is pawing through the books."

Harold nodded again. "It's a wonderful idea."

"It's a necessity."

He turned the little cardboard book in his hand. "I think, perhaps, before we send this cradle, we should refill it. I am rarely in favor of throwing books away, but in this case …"

"I'm sure it was very tasty in its day."

"Yes, but that day is well past." He dropped that battered little book. "Well. On your way, then, go take your pictures. And then we'll go shop for cradle books."

He watched her go, her eyes bright with happy adventure. It didn't matter that she wasn't taking many books home with her, any more than it did to him. It was enough for both of them just to be among them. And now, it seemed, she was determined to plant that same love of reading in Will and Julie's yet-to-be-born child.

Of course, Harold had planned to do much the same himself. But Christine would be closer, with the child much more often. And she was certain to outlive him. It warmed in his chest a little: Christine would be the aunt to this child even as he had been the uncle to the child's father, not connected by blood but by deep bonds of friendship and love.

 _No child ever came to harm being loved by too many people._

Harold couldn't remember who'd first told him that. But he knew it to be true, in his deepest heart.

She was broken, his Christine, his sweet Deidre. Broken and healed in some places, broken beyond repair in others. But she was still able to find incandescent joy in a dusty cradle full of well-gnawed picture books. She would bring joy to this child, and she would bring love.

And she would, most definitely, bring books.


	13. Chapter 13

Victoria – Moira, she reminded herself firmly – stalked down the hall to the room she shared with Susan Holsey. She hoped to hell her roommate was there. Otherwise she was going to have to call Linderson and tell him that the little engineer – an engineer! – had slipped her tail.

Rounding the corner, she bumped into a man who looked even more unhappy than she was. He was unremarkable – average height, short dark hair, potato face, rumpled suit, stocky. And somehow _stalky_. He snarled and kept going. Victoria could have sworn she heard sand whisper he moved. He kept one arm close to his body. Like he was stealing a jar full of sugar. That made no sense, but that was the sound she'd heard.

But there was something else, too. Something that she couldn't name, but that raised the hair on the back of her neck. Something that told her this round-faced man with the close-cut hair was dangerous.

She hadn't seen him at in the hotel before. Every room on the floor had been taken up by convention-goers, so she knew them by sight.

Maybe he'd just checked in. Maybe he was visiting. Or maybe – most likely – he was on the wrong floor.

Something not right.

Puzzled, she went on to her room. To her great relief, Susan was there, in her nightgown and apparently fresh out of the shower; her hair was darkly wet. "I thought I'd lost you," she said, slipping back into her Moira role.

"I couldn't handle being social," Susan answered. "I'm sorry."

"No problem. Feeling better now?"

"Yeah, a little."

"You didn't see that strange guy, did you?"

"What guy?"

"He was out in the hall. Dark hair, kind of a round flat face – kinda bull-dog lookin' guy. Stocky. Bad suit."

Susan shook her head. "Sorry, I was busy using up all the hot water."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure he was just lost or something."

Her roommate shrugged, flopped on the bed and grabbed the TV remote.

* * *

Three miles from the hotel, Hersh stopped his car next to a dark van. He rolled down his window and waited until a flunky in a tie but no jacket got out and came around to him. Then he handed him a paper bag. "Don't drop it," he advised. "Just take it back to the lab and get rid of the rest of it."

The flunky took the container gingerly and peered inside. "What is it?"

Hersh shook his head. "You want to keep this job, kid? Don't ask too many questions."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, I was just …"

Hersh rolled up his window and drove away before the nerd could finish. He tapped a key on his phone as he drove. The was a click of response, no voice. "It's set," he announced. It had taken a little while to find just the right thing, hours of wading through reports on open FBI investigations, but he knew Garrison would be pleased with this operation. He clicked the phone off before the man could answer. Let him see it on the news like everyone else.

* * *

John Reese had developed his own mental rating system for judging the severity of a client's situation. It was based entirely on the rate of his partner's keystroke. If Finch was typing swiftly and steadily, he was well into his research and comfortable with where their case was probably headed. If he was fussing at the keyboard, starting and stopping and sometimes muttering, the case was less obvious and he was hacking his way through multiple leads.

But when Finch's fingers rested on the keys, motionless, it meant he was stuck.

"That bad?" he asked quietly.

Finch looked over at him. "I know who. But I have no idea what, why, or how."

Reese grabbed a straight chair, turned it around, and straddled it. "Let's start with who, then."

"Susan Holsey, forty-two." Finch reached back and took a picture off the printer, then handed it to Reese. "Married ten years. Widowed last February. Hydraulic engineer. Employed by the city of Selwick, Pennsylvania, a short distance from Pittsburgh."

John studied the picture. It was probably an ID photo; the woman looked serious, business-like. She had short brown hair, in a wash-and-go style, and brown eyes. Unremarkable. "Widowed how?"

"Her husband died of cancer. A fast-acting one, apparently. He was diagnosed in December of last year." He signed gently. "His final medical bills are in excess of a hundred thousand dollars. Ms. Holsey has made payment arrangements."

"Marital issues?"

"None of record. She had two write-ups for absenteeism from her job, but they seem to be mere formalities. Both occurred at the end of her husband's illness."

"What's she doing in New York?"

"Attending an annual national conference of professional hydraulic engineers."

Reese smirked; that sounded almost as boring as a gathering of computer engineers.

"She and her husband have attended the conference every year since they were married," Finch continued.

"Maybe some kind of long-term grudge? Slow burn feud?"

'Perhaps. But I'm not seeing any evidence of any sort of disruption. More likely she's seeking the companionship of old friends following her loss." Finch sighed again. "Ms. Holsey seems like a completely ordinary person."

"Even completely ordinary people sometimes plan to kill other completely ordinary people."

Harold looked at him like he wanted to argue. Then he shrugged, conceding the point. "Her social media footprint will likely give us our best starting point."

"How so?"

"Ms. Holsey is passionately outspoken in her opposition to fracking." He paused to send something to his printer. "Specifically, she's vehement in her opposition to Central Gas and Oil and their fracking operations in her home county."

"Threats?"

"No." Finch handed him several pages of printed messages. "Scientific studies, and lots of them. Letters to CG&O. Letters to elected representatives. Speeches at community meetings. Some protest organizing. She seems most focused on ground-water contamination. I wonder …" His attention wandered back to his screen.

"What?"

"Her husband's cancer. I wonder if it might be related to ground water carcinogens. The science is highly suggestive, but it doesn't look like there's any conclusive proof in this instance …"

"It doesn't matter if they can prove it," Reese said tersely. "It only matters if Susan Holsey believes it."

"For our purposes, yes."

"Did Central Gas ever answer her letters?"

Finch poked around the internet for a moment. "Not that I can find, readily. In fact, she complains several times that they hadn't responded to anyone."

"She might not like being ignored." Reese considered. "Are they at the conference?"

"Hmmmmmm." Harold consulted his computer. "No. But their headquarters are in Brooklyn."

"Then that's where we should start looking."

"I suppose."

"You're not convinced."

"Honestly, Mr. Reese … I'm having a hard time believing that this woman could be a perpetrator."

Reese stood up and looked at him patiently.

"Yes, yes," Harold said. "I know. You're quite right. Some of the most ruthless people we've encountered have been women. But not," he argued, "recently-widowed hydraulic engineers."

"First time for everything, Finch."

"I suppose," he agreed reluctantly.

"If she comes to this conference every year, she may have some like-minded friends in the group."

"I'll have a look at her associates."

"Where is this conference?"

Finch clicked. "At the … oh. Oh, dear."

"What?"

"Whatever's going to happen, we don't have much time. The conference ends tomorrow."

Reese glanced at his watch. It was nearly three in the afternoon. "Then I need to get there and start poking the ordinary people."

"Yes." Finch sent him the hotel's address. "I'll continue my research."

"Keep me posted."

"Always, Mr. Reese."

* * *

John parked himself at the end of the bar and ordered a ginger ale. The bartender waived off his attempt to pay for it; Reese guessed the man thought he was either some kind of security or someone's drive.

The hotel bar had been nearly empty when he arrived, but within ten minutes people began pouring in. Reese glanced at the schedule Finch had sent to his phone. The last seminar of the day had ended and the attendees were eager to get their happy hours started. The bartender was suddenly very busy.

John kept an eye on the door. But none of the engineers who rushed in were the ones Reese was looking for. "I don't see Susan or her friends," he reported quietly over the comm.

Finch grunted. Reese could hear his keyboard clacking; he hoped that was a good sign.

Five minutes passed, and then five more. The bartender got the first wave of drinks served and things settled down. He set a bowl of small pretzels in front of Reese.

Then, finally, one of the people of interest showed up. "Holsey's roommate is here," John reported. He watched the woman scan the crowd much more obviously than he had. "She looks agitated."

"Possibly because she doesn't exist," Finch growled.

"Looks real to me."

"She's a real person. But she is definitely not Moira McAllister. That identity has been hastily and rather unimaginatively constructed."

"Government?"

"Very likely."

"That's not good."

"No it is not." Finch sounded equal parts aggrieved and intrigued.

The woman caught Reese looking at her, so he stood, picked up his drink, and moved around the bar to where she stood waiting to order. She was still looking around. "Can I help?"

The woman startled. "What?"

"You look like you're looking for someone."

She looked him up and down. "Not you, unfortunately." She turned her shoulders, dismissing him.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked briskly.

"Uh …" The woman looked around one more time. "Never mind. Thanks." She hurried out of the bar.

The bartender raised an eyebrow at Reese. "Something you said?"

"I just asked if she knew where to find a good plumber around here."

The man smirked. "Hydraulic humor. Nice one." He went back to making blender drinks.

John left his drink and strolled to the doorway. In the lobby beyond, he could see the woman dialing her cell. He brought out his own phone and cloned hers.

Whoever she was calling didn't answer. After the sixth ring, a recording said, "Hi, this is Susan Holsey. I'm away from my phone right now. If this is a water emergency, please call …"

The woman clicked her phone off angrily. She looked around again.

"Looks like her friends ditched her."

"I don't think they're her friends," Finch answered in his ear. "I can find no record that Moira McAllister – or whoever she is – ever contacted Susan Holsey before she arrived here. She only registered for the conference the day before it began."

"Susan attracted someone's attention."

"Mmmmm … oh." Finch sounded pleased. "Yes. Ms. McAllister's cell phone number is part of a block purchase."

Reese rolled his eyes. "F.B.I.?"

"Yes."

"But if whatever she's planning is an F.B.I. matter, it involved national security. That would make her Relevant."

"So we should not have received her Number," Finch agreed.

"Unless McAllister is crooked."

"And Ms. Holsey is being framed."

Reese grimaced. "We need to find her, Finch."

There were only keystrokes for a moment.

"She made an unusual purchase during her visit," Harold finally said. "A jug of potassium permanganate from a wholesaler. On her credit card. She paid a delivery charge, had it shipped to the hotel."

That wasn't any explosive Reese had ever heard of – and he'd heard of all of them. "Poison?"

"No. It's a disinfectant. It's used to clean water systems. And in smaller quantities, fish tanks."

"Maybe she plans to take it home with her?"

"It's commercially available. There's no reason she couldn't get it back in Pennsylvania." Finch paused. "Unless she was planning to present some kind of demonstration at the conference. She also shipped a package from her home to the hotel. A middle-sized box that weighed forty-two pounds."

"No manifest, I suppose."

"Sadly no." And then, "Mr. Reese, I'm up on the hotel's security cameras."

Reese turned his head and winked at the camera in the corner of the bar. "See Susan anywhere?"

"No. But her companions, the four gentlemen we're looking for, are in the atrium."

John stepped past the doorway and into the lobby. From there he could see the balcony on the second floor overlooking the lobby. There was a staircase to the atrium, and the smaller meeting rooms were there. He didn't see the men, but he took Finch's word for it.

McAllister put her cell phone away and went to the elevators. Five seconds after the doors closed behind her, the four men came down the stairs and headed for the front door. "They know she's a snitch," he murmured.

Each of the men carried a parcel of some kind. One had a briefcase; two had satchels, and the third had a paper shopping bag with handles. It seemed heavy. "They're leaving the hotel," he reported. "And they're all carrying something."

"Weapons?"

"I don't think so." But Reese couldn't be sure. He looked down at his phone and moved, quickly but absently, until he ran into the man with the shopping bag. "Sorry," he said quickly, "so sorry, totally my fault …" He managed to get his arm tangled with the man, to get his hand on the bag. Whatever was in it was heavy and hard, maybe a weapon. "Damn, so sorry." He managed to dump the bag.

The device that fell out onto the carpet was definitely not a weapon – or at least not one that Reese recognized. Maybe some kind of hydraulic weapon. It was the size of his two hands, metal, had a six-inch tube on the top, some threaded openings that look like they'd hook to a standard garden hose. The only thing that was alarming was the duct-taped panel that looked like it had been removed from a cell phone.

 _Bomb._

Reese scooped the device from the carpet. "What is this thing?" he asked, all innocent curiosity. He shook it; there was a dry, faint rattle.

"It's a dispersal pump," the man told him gruffly. He took the device and stuffed it back into his bag.

"Oh. I'm really sorry …"

"We gotta go," one of the other men said. They all looked back toward the elevators. Then they hurried out.

"I need to know where they're going, Finch."

"Conveniently," Finch said, "they've called an Uber. And requested four stops. Sending you their destinations now."

"Did you get a look at that thing?"

There was a brief pause. "It is, as he said, a dispersal pump. It allows you to inject a substance into a hydraulic system. It's similar to a morphine pump attached to an I.V."

"So what are they injecting," Reese murmured darkly, "into what water system? And why do they need to activate it remotely?"

"And what does Susan Holsey have to do with any of it?" Finch added.

John glanced at his phone, then went to get his car.

* * *

Susan Holsey tried very hard to imitate the bored expression of everyone around her. She had only been on the subway three times in her life, and the first two had been with her husband beside her. Those times had been fun. This time was misery.

The passengers were packed into the car. She knew the man standing beside her could feel the pump she carried through her canvas bag. He probably thought it was a weapon. But he didn't seem to care. He just wanted to get home. They all did.

The train stopped, often, between stops, simply standing in the dark tunnels between civilization. It smelled bad, like BO and urine. And garlic. And mildew.

Susan looked up at the route map above the door. Eleven more stops. There were three people tightly packed between her and the door, but she'd noted the general shifting at every platform; she wasn't _too_ worried about being able to exit at her stop.

If they ever got there.

She shifted her elbow against her bag, grinding the pump against her side. The man beside her didn't even notice.

She hadn't heard from the others, but that didn't surprise her. They didn't need to leave the hotel until about now. They had planned on the traffic. Her destination was the furthest away.

They hadn't, she thought, planned on quite _this_ much traffic.

The subway train creaked to a stop. The doors opened and passengers swapped places. Susan was pushed a little closer to the door. That was fine. The doors closed and the train lumbered on.

Ten more stops.

* * *

For all the times that they had cursed New York traffic, Finch was currently profoundly grateful for it. It gave him time to research while Mr. Reese tracked the four men through the gridlock.

Whatever they were planning was clearly important. But the Machine had given them Susan Holsey's Number.

 _Potassium permanganate. Dispersal pumps. Central Gas and Oil. The F.B.I., undercover, keeping close tabs on her._

Where was Susan Holsey?

He got into her cell phone record. It wasn't particularly helpful. He could see her call to the chemical wholesaler. Nothing to Central Oil. A few brief calls between her and her friends – Finch imagined those were the _are you coming down to dinner_ type. She didn't search the internet on her phone, and he didn't have access to her computer. He wished Reese had stayed at the hotel and gotten it. But then he would have lost contact with the four engineers, and they were currently their only link to Susan.

He gazed at several feeds from the hotel's cameras. There was grim satisfaction in watching Ms. McAllister stomp around in search of the same person. It took her some time to realize that the men had left the hotel as well. Then she got on the phone.

Finch listened with great interest. "Victoria?" a man answered briskly.

"I lost her."

"What?"

"Holsey. I don't know where she went, but she's not in the hotel. Neither are the guys."

The man paused. "Maybe they went to a bar."

"Maybe. But it feels like they gave me the slip on purpose."

"Maybe they just don't like you."

"Linderson," the woman growled, "we still don't know where they're going or what they're going to do."

"I'll send back-up. Meet them in the lobby."

"Thank you." Then, "Hey, you didn't send somebody over before, did you?"

"What?"

"I ran into this guy in the hallway … never mind. Probably nothing."

"Team's on its way."

The call went dead."

Finch's fingers were already searching for information about Linderson, but his mind was elsewhere. The man in the hallway. Probably nothing, McAllister had said – but it had been enough of something for her to mention it.

He sent his queries about the man on the phone, then turned his attention back to the hotel's surveillance cameras. While the cameras in the main public areas had been modern and well-maintained, the ones that covered the hallways were on a separate, older, and badly configured system. He could watch the feeds in real time, but he could not rewind to previous views. At least not remotely. "Damn," he murmured. "I don't have time."

But there was no option. His stood up and reached for his jacket.

His computer uttered a soft _ping_.

Finch wheeled and stared at the machine. It should not be receiving messages, in its current configuration. Not from anyone. Unless ….

With great reluctance, he stepped forward and tapped the keyboard.

There was no message. Instead, there was an image. A single frame from the surveillance tape. Grainy, black and white. A man looking up at the camera. Expressionless. But Finch didn't need anything more to identify the man.

The Linderson queries returned, but he ignored them. They had much bigger issues now.


	14. Chapter 14

"John." Finch's voice cracked with tension and Reese sat up straighter in his car. "We have a very big problem. Two of them, in fact."

Reese looked around the car. There were two vehicles between him and the engineers' Uber, plus cars firmly on each side of both of them. No one was going anywhere soon. "Talk to me, Finch."

"First, Ms. McAllister has realized that she's lost her surveillance target and called in reinforcements."

"Well, I always enjoy the company of federal law enforcement." That didn't explain his partner's near-panicked tone. "What's the other problem?"

"When you picked up the dispersal pump at the hotel, could you tell anything about what was loaded in the tube? Did it have any odor, any leaks, anything?"

"No." John squinted, thinking intently. "It was dry."

"Dry?"

"It rattled a little. Slithered. Like salt, or sand. Very subtle, but definitely dry."

"Oh dear."

Reese looked around again. No quick way to get his car loose from the jam. "What's the problem, Finch?"

"Potassium permanganate is a liquid," Finch said. "And it's bright pink. Florescent pink, in fact. If it were to be injected into a water system, its presence would be highly visible."

"But you said it wasn't poisonous."

"I wouldn't drink it, but it wouldn't do any permanent damage to the system. Just the opposite, in fact. So when you said Susan Holsey was planning a demonstration …"

John nodded. "She and her friends are going to show how easy it is for the water system to be tampered with."

"All of the stops on your Uber driver's routes are in the immediate vicinity of public parks. With fountains."

John swerved abruptly into the lane next to him, cutting off a minivan but allowing him to draw one car length closer to his engineers. "So they turn four fountains harmlessly bright pink at the same time, in the middle of Manhattan, to demonstrate how easily a water system can be contaminated." Reese considered. "I kinda like it."

"Except that's not what will happen," Finch said grimly. "They may think their pumps are loaded with harmless dye – they almost certainly loaded them themselves – but that's not the case any longer."

"Because whatever's in the tubes is dry," Reese recalled. "Someone tampered with them."

"Not just someone. Mr. Hersch."

Reese exhaled very slowly,

"Whatever's in those tubes now …" Finch began.

"I know," Reese answered tightly. "Hersh is planning a black flag operation. Cause an incident, blame these environmental activists as terrorists."

"But to what end?"

"Does it matter?"

"The F.B.I is right behind them."

"Of course. Might as well hang the frame while you set up the incident." John considered the traffic situation again. The flow was moving a little faster now. They were probably ten minutes from the first stop on the engineers' itinerary. "I'll intercept these four before they get to their first location. Divert them. But we need to find Susan Holsey."

"I'm afraid I don't know where to look," Finch admitted.

"Somewhere with a fountain."

"That doesn't narrow it down much." But Reese could hear his partner's keyboard spring to life.

* * *

Susan Holsey climbed the stairs out of the subway, keeping pace with the other commuters leaving the train. The crowd had thinned out some, but there were still an awful lot of people around. Back home _rush hour_ lasted about fifteen minutes and meant she might have to wait through two traffic lights for her turn. In New York City, _rush hour_ seemed to be pretty much a round-the-clock event.

Right at the top of the stairs there were two uniformed police officers.

Susan hesitated, her elbow tight over her bag, pressing the pump inside against her ribs. The man behind her on the stairs bumped into her, hard. He grunted, something that might have been an apology or a curse. She started climbing again.

The police, of course, paid absolutely no attention to her. Why would they?

Still, she took a right turn and moved down the sidewalk to the next crosswalk rather than going straight to the access door. At the crosswalk she stopped and looked back. The cops were still leaning against their car.

Holsey already knew the lay-out of the fountain. She knew that there was a tunnel beneath it that allowed for maintenance access. And she knew that she could get into the tunnel through a plain steel door in the side of a tourist kiosk that closed at seven.

The door, fortunately, faced away from the cops. Susan stopped by the door, looking outward, groping in her pocket for her lockpicks. She had studied up, practiced for months back home. She just had to turn around and get the lock open before anyone noticed her fumbling with it. And yelled for the cops.

Except – this was New York. No one ever noticed anything.

She closed her eyes. For one moment Martin was beside her, holding her hand. Then he was gone. She opened her eyes, turned around, and moved to pick the lock.

It was old and loose; she got it open on the first try.

Susan made herself not look around before she stepped inside. She had to act like she belonged here. Not that anyone would notice her. She closed the door behind her, and then she was inside the kiosk. It was dark; the front windows were covered with metal shutters for the night. She groped for the light switch.

Directly across from her was a second door. A large sign helpfully told her that it led to FOUNTAIN MAINTENANCE. It also advised AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

"Well, I'm authorizing myself," Susan said grimly. She opened the door – it wasn't even locked – and climbed down the narrow stairs.

* * *

Wynn, Johnson, Stratton, Hudson. John didn't bother trying to match the names to the faces. They were a group, at the moment, and he treated them as a group. They were engineers, and would-be activists. None of them had a criminal record. None had any military training. So while they outnumbered him four to one, Reese liked his odds.

Still, a bit of surprise never hurt any operation, so long as he was the one doing the surprising.

Armed with knowledge of their first destination, he stopped following their Uber and instead exited the freeway, took the side streets, ignored some traffic laws, and reached the first park a full five minutes ahead of them. He parked on the street nearest to the fountain, leaned against his car, and waited.

As the Uber slid to a stop, he strolled over. The back door opened and one of the engineers – Wynn, he thought – got out, carrying his satchel. Reese put one hand on his shoulder and flashed the late Detective Stills' badge, low, with the other. "I need a word with you and your friends," he announced quietly. "All of you, out of the car. Bring your things."

There was some protest, some confusion, and of course surprise, but the men reluctantly got out of the car. "Is there a problem, Officer?" the Uber driver asked, still behind the wheel.

"Detective. And no, no problem for you. But this trip is over. Great job, we'll be sure to give you five stars."

"But …" one of the engineers protested.

"Wait a minute …"

"What's this about? We haven't done anything wrong.

"Go," Reese directed the driver.

The driver considered very briefly. Then he drove off.

"So." John turned to the men, still bunched uncertainly on the sidewalk. They were a little angry, maybe defiant, but they were basically law-abiding citizens and he had a badge. "We don't have a lot of time, so I'm going to be blunt. Your pumps have been tampered with." More surprise, and every one of them gathered his container a little closer.

"This stunt you have planned," he continued calmly, "dying the fountains bright pink? It's not a stunt any more. It's an act of terrorism."

"No!"

"That's impossible," one explained. "It's just disinfectant, we use it all the time. It's harmless."

"It's liquid," John replied. "Shake the tube now, tell me what you hear."

The men looked at each other. Then the one Reese had deliberately tangled up with at the hotel pulled his pump out of the shopping bag and shook it near his ear. He frowned, then shook it again. "What?"

The dark-haired one took it and shook it as well. "What the hell is that? We filled these ourselves. With PotPerm. We were all there. Together."

"Tampered with," Reese repeated. "I don't know what's in there now, but I can guarantee it's not harmless."

And now they were all holding their devices away from their bodies. "But … who are you?"

The man with the bag said, "You're the one who ran into me at the hotel."

"Yes."

"Who are you? Who tampered with the pumps?"

There was a moment of silence. Then, as one, the men shook their heads. "No," the bag man said, "Susan would never do something like that. She'd never hurt anybody. The coloring, sure, but she wouldn't hurt people. Not even now."

Reese nodded. "Where is Ms. Holsey?"

No one answered.

He looked squarely at the tallest man. "Your pumps have been tampered with. So has hers. We can't help her if we can't find her. So where is she going?"

The man started to answer, then stopped. "Why should we believe you want to help her? You're going to arrest us all, aren't you?"

"Me? No. But Moira McAllister? That's not her real name, and she works for the F.B.I. And I'm pretty sure that they _are_ going to arrest you all. With your remotely-triggered devices full of toxins."

"Shiiiiit," the dark-haired man said.

"We knew she wasn't an engineer," the other man – the only one who hadn't spoken – said. "We figured she was some kind of con artist, maybe.

"Close enough," Reese allowed. He walked to his car, deliberately turning his back on the men. As he'd expected they followed him, scared and confused. He opened the trunk. "Here's what we're going to do. You're all going to put your pumps in here."

The man with the shopping bag dropped his in immediately. The others hesitated.

"Then I'm going to drive you all to a strip club. You're going to use your credit cards. You're going to drink, you're going to be obnoxious. If you can manage it, you're going to get thrown out. If not, you close the place down. The F.B.I. will find you there, or they'll find you back at the hotel. Either way you deny you were at a strip club, because you don't want to folks back home to know about it, and then you come clean. They have no evidence that you did anything else tonight. They may hold you, they may lean on you some, but you're clean. They'll end up cutting you lose."

"And what about the pumps?" The quiet man dropped his bag into the trunk.

"I'll take care of them," Reese promised. "And by the way, you never saw me tonight."

The men shared looks, a few comments, and then the other two devices were placed in the trunk. Reese slammed the lib. "That'll clear you four. But we still need to know where your friend is."

"Who would put poison in the pumps?" the tall man asked. "Nobody even knew about our plan."

"McAllister did," the dark-haired one pointed out.

"But …"

"Where," Reese repeated firmly, "is Susan Holsey?"

After a long pause, the quiet one said, "Washington Square Park."

"I'm closer," Finch said immediately in his ear. "I'm headed there now."

"We could call her," one suggested. "Tell her what's up …"

"Her phone is tapped," John answered. "If you call her it will just tip them off. We'll take care of it." Then, "When are you supposed to set the devices off?"

"Eight. We figured, still plenty of people around to see it but not a huge panicked crowd."

Reese glanced at his watch. Tight. Very tight. But if Finch could get to her first …

"Get in the car," he snapped. He pulled away from the curb before they got the door shut.

* * *

It took Susan Holsey a little extra time to set the device. The fountain plumbing system wasn't hooked up correctly or logically. In fact, it was so badly designed that she had to blink back tears. Of course it was the design, she told herself. She was not going to be too sentimental to complete this task. She was _not_. She checked her watch, wiped her eyes and made herself take her time. No need to hurry; better to get it right.

She still had time to spare when she climbed back up to the kiosk. She reminded herself to turn out the light before she opened the outer door. Then she strode out, not looking around. The door closed and locked behind her. No one noticed her. She walked in a straight line to the nearest sidewalk, then circled the park to a bench with a clear view of both the kiosk and the fountain. Still no one noticed her. She considered walking a little further, to the hot dog cart, to get a soda. Her throat was dry. But her stomach roiled ominously, tense. She decided not to risk it.

There was a man in a suit walking his dog ahead of her, going the same direction. It was a biggish dog, not a shepherd but one of those military ones. Susan wondered why anyone would have such a big dog in the city. The man paused just behind the bench she had picked and took out his phone. The dog sat down beside him, patient and very well-trained. Susan passed them and sat down at the end of the bench.

She took out her own phone. Still ten minutes to go. She hoped the guys had their devices planted. She wished they would call.

She considered the soda again. Maybe ginger ale would settle her stomach.

The man in the suit sat down right next to her on the bench. The dog sat again at his feet. Before she could protest, he said, very calmly, "Hello, Ms. Holsey."

* * *

Mr. Reese wouldn't like it, Finch knew. He was too close to this woman, and essentially defenseless. If she was armed, or if she became violent – or if the authorities closed in on her while he sat beside her – no, Mr. Reese would not approve.

But Finch had no way of knowing how close the F.B.I. was, so approaching this woman in the open park was his only option.

Besides, she was an engineer. That made Finch inclined to trust that she would at least to hear him out.

Which was, he recognized, quite an irrational bias on his part.

At last he's brought Bear. That might mollify his partner somewhat.

"Who are you?" Susan Holsey demanded. "How do you know my name?"

"I know a great deal about your situation," Harold answered. He made his voice as light and friendly as he could manage. "Including some things that you're not aware of. For example, your roommate from the hotel is an undercover agent for the F.B.I."

Holsey grabbed her phone.

"Also your phone has been disabled."

She clicked it anyhow. "How did you … why …"

"The device you planted in the fountain has been tampered with."

Susan stood up. "What did you do?"

"Please," Finch said, still mildly, "sit down, and I'll explain as well as I'm able."

"Who are you?"

He considered. "I'm an engineer. In a different specialty, but like you I saw the work of my lifetime become … perverted. Please, sit down."

The woman looked around, anxious. She stared at Bear for a long moment. "I don't understand."

"Please," Finch said again, "sit down."

She sat, on the edge of the bench, sideways so she could face him. "How do you know about the … device?"

"It's a dispersal pump," he said. "You loaded it with potassium permanganate. The plan was for you and your colleagues to plant the devices in fountains around the city. At a set time – only a few minutes from now – you were going to remotely trigger them simultaneously. The water in the fountains would turn vividly pink, and you would have demonstrated to the citizens of New York how readily their water system could be tampered with."

"It's harmless," Susan said quietly. "It won't hurt anyone, it's just …"

"This man," Finch held his phone out to her, "broke into your hotel room and replaced your fill tubes on the devices."

"With what?"

"We don't know yet. But I can assure you, from our past experiences with this man, that your pumps are no longer harmless."

"Who is he?" She stared at the photo, but did not reach for it.

"His name is Hersh. He works for a particularly shadowy branch of our government."

Susan frowned, confused. "But you said the F.B.I …"

"You're being framed, Mrs. Holsey. When you activate your device, the water in the fountain will become poisonous." He waved toward the pedestrians in the park. "These people will sicken, perhaps die. The F.B. I. will arrest you. You will be charged as a domestic terrorist."

"But it's harmless …"

"Not any more."

"But _why_? Why would they do that?"

 _Because the Machine is too good at its job, most likely_ , Finch thought morosely. _Because there have been no successful terrorist attacks, and black ops needs to frighten the government into continuing their funding._ It was speculation, but it was well-supported by his previous experience.

"If you go through with this," he continued, "if people are harmed, or killed, they will use your attack to discredit not only you, but every environmental activist. They will dismiss you and your cause as dangerous terrorists with no regard for human life."

"But _they're_ the ones who are taking human lives!" she protested. "The big energy companies, the fracking …"

"Want to silence you and everyone like you. Every scientist and engineer and physician, everyone who stands between them and maximum profits. And they will use this event as proof that none of you can be trusted."

Susan Holsey began to tremble. When she looked up, Finch could see the rage in her eyes. "I don't care," she stated. Her voice cracked. "I don't care. If people die … well, then they won't be able to ignore me anymore."

"Susan …"

She glared down at her phone. She'd forgotten that it had been disabled, and Finch didn't remind her. "It doesn't matter anymore!"

"You don't mean that. You don't want to harm anyone."

"They killed my husband. They poisoned him and they killed him, and they won't even answer my letters! So if I have to kill … if I have to … if I …"

Sobbing, she put her phone down.

Harold wanted to comfort her, but he sensed that touching her would cause her more distress. Bear looked at him quizzically, and he nodded. The Malnois moved just enough to prop his chin on Holsey's knee. After a moment she put her hand on his head.

In the moment, his earpiece clicked. He tapped it. "I've got the pump," Reese said.

Harold looked toward the kiosk and nodded.

Susan Holsey sat up suddenly. "I've got to … I need your phone! I've got to call off the others!"

"That's been taken care of," Finch assured her. He handed her his white handkerchief. "The other devices have been safely disposed of, and your associates are currently establishing their alibis at a, erm, gentlemen's club."

"At a … oh." She smiled wanly, still crying. "I see."

"It's likely that the F.B.I will approach you, and perhaps detain you," he continued. He paused until she nodded her understanding. Despite her emotional state, she was following his words. "You have been viewing the various fountains in New York City because you'd like to have a small fountain constructed in your home town in your husband's honor. You have purchased a number of books on the subject; Amazon is shipping them to your home, and they've been charged to your debit card."

"I can't afford that …"

"Your medical bills have been paid. By the company that poisoned your husband." Finch barely paused. "There is the first draft of a proposal to city council about the fountain on your computer. You've also checked the schedule of their upcoming meetings and the procedures for placing an item on the agenda. So – on your last night in the city, while your friends were viewing mostly-naked young women, you came here, to see this fountain in person."

She swallowed. "But I broke in to the kiosk … there are cameras …"

Finch shook his head. "It's all been taken care of."

"You put files … on _my_ computer?"

"That's not the important part of this conversation."

"You hacked my computer? But I'm careful!"

"You are. The hotel wifi, not so much."

"But you … but I …"

"Mrs. Holsey. I'm on your side."

"Why should I believe you?"

In his ear, Reese said, "Just walk away, Finch. Now."

"Because I have a dog?" Finch suggested to the woman. He stood up. "If you get into any difficulty, ask for an attorney named Mr. Cardinal. He's very good."

"But …"

"Good luck, Mrs. Holsey." He walked away.

He had gone only half a block when the line of three black SUVs raced past him in the direction of the park.


	15. Chapter 15

Root stared at the computer screen, perplexed.

She had examined the machine thoroughly the first day Control had had it wheeled it. It was a massive old tower, and not only had it never been connected to the internet, it didn't even have the _capacity_ to be connected. No Bluetooth, no USB ports. It had a slot that held and used 5-1/2" discs that were literally floppy. Root knew of such things, of course – she'd just never had to use one before.

The only thing on the computer was the code that had been extracted from the chip from Alicia Corwin's shoulder.

They brought the computer into her cell for an hour every day. Then they wheeled it out and probably checked it over. She had expected Control to take that sort of precaution. There was no way for the Machine to contact her through the ancient device. But she was reasonably certain that every day Control's monkeys downloaded – somehow – the work Root did on the code and uploaded it to something more modern. And from there, the Machine could pick up her messages.

She had only threaded a single message in. Every day she hid in her code two words: HELP ME.

So far there had been no response. But Root was patient.

After some study, she recognized the encryption that was used on the chip from Alicia Corwin's shoulder. It was one of Harry's. An older one, but she knew every stroke of his work. It was very good. But she had worked out how to crack it years ago. It just took her a while to remember.

The code under the encryption, though, puzzled her. It was not Harry's. It was much too clunky and unclean to be his.

So who, Root mused, was close enough to Harry to have access to his encryptions? The little bitch that ran the coffee shop? _Used to run it, before it burned down_. Root smiled to herself. Maybe. He did seem to trust her. Harry was a bit of a sucker for a pretty face.

But then how had it ended up on a chip in Corwin's shoulder?

Root leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, seeing the code in her mind. The language was old, outdated, too. This chip might be – what, ten years old? Less than that, probably, but not much.

If she understood completely what it was, she might be able to figure out who had written it. But she didn't want to tease it out for Control until she knew what it was.

Corwin. Root had only met her once – if you counted shooting her and throwing her body out on the ground as meeting. She knew the woman had worked for the government, had been Harry's contact while the Machine was being developed …

Root opened her eyes and squinted at the screen. No, Corwin had not been _Harry's_ contact. She'd been the buffoon's contact. Ingram. Tall, blond, rich, dumb.

 _Not_ dumb, Root corrected. Not as smart as Harry, no one was, but not dumb. Smart enough to be useful to him, anyhow.

But – dead.

If, as she suspected, the chip allowed a person to hide from the all-seeing eyes of the Machine, then Harry had no need of it. He had written his invisibility into the core code of his creation. Funny, Root thought – the man who invaded the privacy of the whole world had taken great care to maintain his own. But that was Harry. Nathan Ingram would have had to invent his own chip of invisibility. And he was smart enough, and knew enough about Harry's creation, to do it.

But if Ingram had created the chip, why hadn't he waited to contact that reporter until he had it implanted? He had to know that the government would do anything to keep their secret surveillance system safe. He had to know they would kill him to stop him.

Except – maybe he didn't.

Ingram might not have been outright stupid, but he might have been naïve. Maybe he'd had the chip ready to go if he had to run, but he didn't think the government would kill him right out of the gate …

Root frowned. It didn't quite make sense. It wasn't clean.

She hated having to guess. She didn't have enough information.

But assuming she was right, or close to right – how had Alicia Corwin ended up with the chip?

Corwin, Root had been able to learn from Garrison's records, had vanished shortly after Ingram's death. There were rumors that she's been compromised. That she'd gotten too close to Ingram to be objective. Northern Lights had looked for her, a lot, but they never got a hint or a trail.

"Because she had the chip," Root murmured. Okay. Corwin was banging Ingram. She knew about the chip. He ended up spectacularly dead. She took the chip and dropped out of sight.

That didn't explain what she'd been doing in Harry's car just before her untimely death. Root grimaced. She probably should have asked a few more questions before she pulled the trigger. But the woman was so long-winded and _annoying_. And Root had been impatient. All that time playing Damsel in Distress for Harry's great ape sidekick …

Anyhow. Ingram wrote the code, maybe, and encrypted it with Harry's code. When her employers wasted him, Corwin grabbed the chip and put in her own shoulder so she could vanish. Maybe Corwin had been the one who suggested the chip in the first place. She certainly knew the people she worked for. Then Root killed her and Control got the chip out of her dead body … and now they wanted to know how the chip had let Corwin vanish.

Root nodded. That made sense. Maybe the details weren't perfect, but it made enough sense to let her formulate a response.

She sure as hell wasn't going to give them Ingram's code.

But she would give them something.

Root rolled her shoulders, cracked her knuckles, and reached for the keyboard.

* * *

Harold arrive in the early evening with a rolling suitcase and a garment bag. The door to the apartment opened as he approached it. "Thank you, Alan," he murmured self-consciously.

"That you, Random?" Christine called from within.

"It's me." He pulled his case down to the guest room, hug the garment bag, and opened the suitcase on the bed. One of the black kittens appeared, climbed over the side of the case, and sat on his neatly-folded pajamas. "You are such a cliché," he said fondly.

The second cat approached more slowly, but quite deliberately settled on the other side of the open suitcase.

"And you," he added. "But I need this." He reached under the cat, who complained, and retrieved the square fabric-covered black box. "Now where is your lady?"

He found Christine in her office at the front of the building. Her hair was up, her make-up done, the gold dress perfectly fit over her curves. Her feet were still bare. She was standing up, leaning over her computer, tapping.

"It will probably wait," Finch commented.

"Probably." She sighed, then shut the computer's lid and straightened. "Well?"

"You look wonderful. Except you need accessories. A bit of sparkle."

Her eyes narrowed. "Said the man with something already in mind."

"I might have an idea or two." Harold opened the box and showed her the antique black and gold diamond necklace and earrings inside.

Christine smiled, but did not reach for them. "That seems … excessive."

"I bought them at a pawn shop in Las Vegas," Finch explained. "They were quite inexpensive."

"Las Vegas," she answered. "That time you forgot to call me." She did not say _when Root was trying to kill you again,_ but he heard it clearly.

 _Because you were in mourning_ , Finch did not answer. Instead he held the case out to her and bowed slightly. "My form of apology, then."

After a long moment lifted the necklace from the box. "It is pretty."

"If you don't like these, I could send out to Tiffany's for something more to your liking."

"They'll do. Thank you." She turned and let him clasp the necklace behind her neck. "Are you coming with Julie and I? I think Will and Taylor went ahead with Sam."

"No, I thought I'd shower and change. And," Finch hesitated, "there may be a minor issue."

Christine turned and put one of the earrings on. "Number?"

"No. Well, yes, an old one. Logan Pierce."

"I know him."

"He knows us. John and I. And he has suspicions about our source of information."

She waited, putting the second earring on.

"He was in Paris," Finch continued, "but I've received word that he's on his way back tonight. Given his recent search history, I believe he plans to crash the ball tonight."

"You're clocking Logan Pierce?" Christine was amused.

"On an automated basis, of course."

"We can have security keep him out."

"That's likely to incite his suspicions even further. It would be better if you let him attend. He's likely to make a sizeable donation."

"He can certainly afford it."

"But, we'll need to make sure that Will and Julie don't mention my name, or John's, to him."

"Or Taylor, or any of the others."

"Yes."

Christine nodded. "I'll let them know."

"You can tell them …"

"… past business conflicts, less said better. I know the drill."

Finch grimaced. "If he does show up, he's unlikely to stay long. His attention span is about fifteen seconds."

"I know. He's a hell of a coder, though."

"He has his skills, I suppose."

"And he's very rich. Is he richer than you?"

"I can assure you he is not." He considered. "Don't accept any gifts from him."

She raised one eyebrow and gave him an amused smirk eerily reminiscent of John Reese's. "Yes, dear."

* * *

He hadn't been invited, but that rarely stopped Logan Pierce from going anywhere. He marched up to the reception table and announced his name, fully anticipating a flurry of approval-getting. Instead, the very business-like woman said, "How nice of you to join us, Mr. Pierce," and handed him a preprinted name tag.

So he'd been expected. _Interesting_. He dropped the name badge into his pocket, snagged a glass of champagne off a passing tray, and went in search of his hosts.

Sam Campanella was fairly close to the door. He had his arm around a pretty young woman who looked scarcely old enough to be legal. Pierce squinted a little. Campanella was known to be a holy roller, the proverbial Christian straight shooter. The unicorn of the cut-throat business world. So the extremely young woman beside him, in the modest floor-length gown …

"Pierce?" Campanella called. "Glad you could make it."

"I wasn't actually invited."

"We heard you were in Paris. Your people said you wouldn't be back." The older man had kept his arm around the girl, and if Logan wasn't imagining things, he'd pulled her just a little closer. "But I'm glad you're here."

"I suppose you think I'm good for a big donation."

"I hope so. It's a good cause, Logan."

"They're all good causes, Sam." He eyed the young girl up and down. "I don't think we've met."

Campanella shifted, and this time he definitely pulled the girl closer. "Logan Pierce, my daughter Mary. Mary, Mr. Pierce."

"Hello," she said, friendly but shy.

Piece held his hand out, until her manners forced her to present hers. He gripped it, not too tight, then bowed and pressed his lips to it. "It is a _very_ great pleasure to meet you, Mary."

The girl's cheeks went bright red. "I … I …"

"Do you know Will Ingram?" Campanella said. He gestured, and managed to turn so that his daughter was slightly further from Pierce.

Ingram came over. His tuxedo was clearly bespoke, and yet he managed to look rumpled in it. If he'd been wearing a tie he'd already lost it, and his collar button was undone. "We've crossed paths," Logan said, "but we've never met."

Ingram grasped his hand and shook it firmly. "Logan Pierce. So glad you could make it. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

"You have?"

"He has." His wife, Julie formerly Carson, glided up behind him, which was fairly remarkable given the size of her belly. She had not yet reached the waddling stage of her pregnancy, but she was getting uncomfortably close. "It's nice to see you again." She moved in close enough to do the two-cheek air kiss.

"You look … fantastic," he said, sincerely. Logan had met her twice, years before, but she'd been altogether too hard and sporty for him to be very attracted. Now she was softer, and the look in her eyes was a lot less brittle. "Motherhood agrees with you. And marriage, apparently."

"It does," she agreed. "We heard you were in Paris."

"I was. But," he gestured around, "I couldn't very well miss the party of the year, could I?"

"I'm glad you came. Will you excuse us?" She glided over and touched young Mary's arm, and the two of them left the ballroom together.

"Something I said?" Logan wondered sardonically.

"Have you heard about our project?" Ingram asked eagerly. "Julie says you're always interested in emerging technologies, and what we're doing may be right up your alley."

"Uh-huh," Logan answered absently. He was looking over the crowd, and spotted his quarry. "Sounds great. We'll talk." Then he moved away.

* * *

"He's kinda cute," Mary said. "But also kinda scary."

Julie nodded solemnly. "Yeah. That part of you that's telling you he's scary? That's your common sense. Listen to it."

They paused at the door to the ladies' room. "I don't really have to go," the girl said.

"Ah, I remember those days," Julie answered wistfully. She gestured. "You can get back into the ballroom over there. Try to stay away from Pierce."

"I will."

"But if he bothers you, feel free to tell him how much you're looking forward to starting high school."

The girl smiled shyly and left. Julie walked into the lounge outside the restroom. She pulled her phone out of her pocket – silently blessing the designer who had decided that even maternity evening gowns should have useful pockets – and selected a number from her contacts.

"Everything alright?" Harold answered immediately.

"Fine. You were right. Logan Pierce is here."

There was a soft huff. "As expected. No major social event would be complete without him." Then, "Well, I doubt he'll stay long. Mr. Reese and I are outside, but we'll keep to the wings until he departs."

"Are you ever going to tell me why?" Julie teased.

"I very much doubt it."

She put her phone away and patted her rounded belly. "We made it almost forty minutes this time, kiddo. It's a miracle." Then she hurried into the bathroom.

* * *

Logan Pierce was, as always, single-minded in his pursuit. She was dancing with a young African-American man, tall and very thin, bad dancer, good suit. He was, Pierce saw when he got closer, very young. Probably still a teenager. "Excuse me," he said, cutting in neatly. "I need a word with your dance partner."

The young man hesitated, just for an instant, until the woman nodded. Then he stepped away, not very gracefully.

"Hello," Pierce said, taking the woman in his arms. "I'm Logan Pierce. But you already knew that. I love those diamonds. Are they heirlooms?"

"Yes."

"Nice. Listen, I'll get right to the point. I know who you are. You used to run a little one-man – well, one-woman – tiger team. You hacked my companies' computers. Twice."

"I did."

Pierce was very good at reading people. He often relied on that talent. But this young woman, with the new dress and the old diamonds, he couldn't quite get. Her face was absolutely still. Composed, unperturbed, almost uninterested. Yet her body was relaxed enough in his arms, and she fully submitted to his guidance around the dance floor. She was not afraid of him, nor impressed by him. Which was very curious.

He glanced around, caught sight of Will Ingram. The young billionaire was also dancing, clumsily, with Campanella's teenage daughter. They were both laughing.

He turned his attention back to his own partner. "Both times," he continued, "I offered you a job. And both times you turned me down. As I recall you said you wanted to be independent. You weren't interested in the corporate life. For any price. And yet here you are in the loving arms of Ingram and Carson."

"We're non-profit," she corrected politely.

"There's no difference," Pierce scoffed. "It's just the same."

"We're trying to fix the world, not get rich off of it."

"Very noble, I'm sure. And now that you've gotten that off your lovely chest, what would it cost me to steal you away?"

Her blue eyes never left his, and there was no surprise in them. "I'm sorry, Mr. Pierce. I'm not looking for another job."

"You can name your price. Within reason, of course. And I'm prepared to be _very_ reasonable."

"No thank you."

He glanced over at Ingram again. "Is it loyalty? You feel obligated? Tell you what. You come work for me, I'll pay you whatever you want, and I'll donate a million dollars to Ingram's little windmill project. That should soften the blow, right?"

"It's not about money, Mr. Pierce."

"Logan, please. And it's always about money. People will tell me, it's about loyalty, it's about saving the world, whatever their thing is. But in the end, it's always about money."

"Maybe you're just chasing after the wrong people."

This time he didn't bother looking at Ingram. He held her eyes. "So you _are_ screwing him, huh? Does the little pregnant missus know? You have some kind of open arrangement?"

There was still no surprise in her eyes, or fear. "It's been nice talking to you, Mr. Pierce."

She tried to leave. He tightened his grip. "What's he got that I haven't got?"

The barest smile played over her lips. "Well, _me_ , apparently."

"Okay, that hurt," Pierce admitted. "But just a little. What does he give you that I can't give you? Because I assure you, I have more money than he ever will. More of _everything_ than he ever will." He glanced suggestively downward, between their bodies. "If you know what I mean."

She hesitated, then looked down exactly the way he had. "Do you have references, Mr. Pierce."

"Dozens."

"So I can have all the money I want, and I can screw the boss whenever I want?"

Logan grinned. "Well, I wouldn't have put it quite that baldly, but yes. If that's what it takes to get you on my team, I'm willing to take the hit."

Her eyes narrowed a little. "Why do you really want me, Mr. Pierce?"

"Because you're brilliant. Brilliant enough to hack even my security."

"Is that it?"

"And you're easy on the eyes. And you don't scare easy."

"And?"

"Isn't that enough?"

She sighed. "I think you really only want me because Will Ingram has me."

"Well, yeah," Pierce admitted, "that's part of it, too. I want the best. Of everything. And I always get it."

"Tell me something, Mr. Pierce."

"Logan."

"What's _my_ name?"

He blinked. "What?"

"What's my name? Do you even know?"

"It's …" he searched his memory frantically. "It's Cassandra," he finally remembered with relief. And then, a little stretch more, "Cassandra Fitzgerald."

"Cassandra was my company's name."

"So I get half credit."

"Fifty percent is still failing."

"Tell me your name, and I promise I'll never forget it."

She considered for a long moment. Her eyes were blue and cool, and Logan Pierce had the uncomfortable feeling that she was reading every inch of him, like code laid bare. That she was reading him the way he usually read other people.

"Good night, Mr. Pierce," she finally said. Then she simply walked away.

"Logan!" he shouted after her.

* * *

Harold Finch folded his arms over his chest. Reese was pretty certain he actually growled at the monitor.

"She handled him," John said. "Did a nice job of it." He stopped watching over Harold's shoulder, went back around the desk and settled into the comfortable visitor's chair. Mira Dobrica was the general manager of the hotel, and Finch generally let her run it with a free hand. But tonight, with the CIREI event in the grand ballroom, he had taken temporary ownership of her office.

"That man does not understand boundaries," Finch snarled.

"Oh, he understands them. He just doesn't care about them."

Harold extended his hands over the keyboard of his laptop. His fingers hovered, flexed, as he practiced the code in his mind.

"Harold," Reese said mildly.

"He won't stop with one attempt. We both know that."

John raised an eyebrow. Harold was genuinely angry.

"And while Miss Fitzgerald is more than capable of defending herself from Pierce's aggressions, there is no reason we shouldn't supply her with the weapons at our disposal." He nodded and his fingers began to fly over the keys.

Furious Hacking Finch was one of Reese's favorite Finch modes. He sat back and watched with amusement. "I hope he leaves soon. I'm hungry. And those shrimp looked really good."

"I can have something brought in, if you like." Harold did not look up.

"Nah, I'll live." _A man on a mission,_ Reese mused, watching his partner. Not stepping in to protect Christine directly, as he would have done in earlier years, but giving her the tools to protect herself.

John did not honestly see Logan Pierce as much of a threat to Christine. She had shot down bigger egos than his. And physically she was more than able to take him out. But let Finch play his computer games, if it made him happy.

Reese smirked a little to himself and gladly stayed out of it. There had better be some shrimp left when this was over.

* * *

Will Ingram had managed to lose his jacket and roll up his sleeves, and he was almost comfortable. Formal parties were not his thing. Jeans and t-shirts were his things. Social bashes were his dad's kingdom – or had been. Will was just putting in his time and trying to get through. But it wasn't as bad as he'd expected. He had Julie with him, and his friends, and even though they were all dressed up, they were having a pretty good time.

In the morning they were leaving for Europe. He was sad to be leaving Julie, though he felt a lot better knowing that his Uncle Harold would be right upstairs while he was away. But he was genuinely looking forward to the adventure ahead. There was so much to learn, and so many people who wanted to meet them. He felt like he was finally going to start actually making a difference

"Hey." Logan Pierce grabbed his upper arm. "Got a minute?"

Will smiled, with some reservation. He had been warned about the other young billionaire. Most specifically, he'd been warned not to mention John or Harold in front of him. Bad blood, Scotty said. Something about a business deal. He didn't really need to know more than that – though he really, really wanted to. He was used to his uncle's secretive ways. "What's on your mind?"

"I have five million reasons right here," Logan released his arm and snapped a slender, hand-written check between his fingers, "for you to put me on your Board of Directors."

"That's, uh, a very convincing argument."

"Thought so." Pierce folded the check and tucked it into Will's shirt pocket.

"But why?" Ingram asked. "You've never demonstrated any interest in non-profits before."

"Oh, I'm interested in profit still." He tucked a comfortable arm around Will's shoulders. "And I think renewable energy might be the profit sector of the very near future. So. I throw a little money your way, you and your genius there – what's her name again?"

"Scotty?"

"Scotty, right. Fitzgerald?"

"Her name's Christine, really, but almost everybody calls her Scotty. Everybody except my –" He stopped, only barely, before he mentioned Harold's name.

Logan didn't notice. "Right. You and the genius do the research, I listen and decide when a company needs to be under my wing. Simple capitalism."

"Hmmm. I'll need to talk to Sam, of course."

"Of course."

"Your donation is incredibly generous."

"Yeah." Pierce seemed completely uninterested. "Put it to good use. Let me know about the next board meeting." He gave Will's shoulder a squeeze, then moved away.

"Do you want to make a speech or something?"

Logan didn't even look back. "I hate making speeches. But thanks!"

* * *

She sat on a little bench in the lobby outside the ballroom, her head bent over her phone. Logan Pierce surveyed the space, decided that none of the stragglers coming or going from the ballroom were close enough to bother him, and sat down next to her. He scooted close enough that their knees and thighs pressed togather.

"Your name is Christine Fitzgerald, but your friends call you Scotty."

Christine glanced up briefly, brushed her hair back and touched her ear. "You've mastered the Google. Congratulations."

"You almost bled to death in a loft that once belonged to Nathan Ingram, and now belongs to me."

"Okay."

"You're not Will Ingram's mistress. You're his sister. Half-sister. Illegitimate half-sister."

The woman finally paused, with her palm over the screen of her phone. "I'm not," she answered pleasantly, "but there's no harm in your thinking so."

"I gave him a check for five million dollars."

"Will?"

"Yeah. Well, for SeaWeed or whatever you call this windmill thing. He's going to put me on the board."

"Why?"

"I need to do something good. Something that looks good, anyhow. My reputation's kinda of taken a hit lately. I'm not a bad guy. I'm really not. But nobody knows that. So, throw some money, get in good with the white knight in there. Totally worth it."

"Hmmm." The woman seemed unimpressed.

"I have another check for you." He brought it out of his pocket and held it open in front of her. "Also for five million dollars. A signing bonus. And then I'll pay you whatever you want."

Christine cocked her head. "You're really not used to being told _no_ , are you?"

"I always get what I want," Logan bragged. "Sooner or later, always."

"I don't want to work for you, Mr. Pierce."

"Why not?"

"Because we've met twice before, and yet you had to ask Will my name." She shrugged. "Because I don't like you."

He waved the check. "Five million reasons you could learn to like me."

"No. Thank you."

"You don't want my money. Fine. What do you want?"

"For you to go away."

Pierce sat back, his hand over his heart. "I'm wounded. Truly, deeply wounded. I'm just … going to put this away." He tucked the check back into his pocket. "Wounded."

She tapped her fingers gently on her phone screen. "Was there anything else, Mr. Pierce?"

"Oh, you think we're done?" Logan grinned wolfishly. "We're not done, _Scotty_. I told you, I always get what I want, one way or another. And if you don't want to play nice, well, it would be a damn shame if someone with my resources decided to make life difficult for your little family unit in there. Ingram? He has daddy's money. But he's not very smart. And he sure as hell doesn't have any killer instinct. He's a very tempting target."

Christine studied him for a moment, and for the second time Pierce got the feeling she was looking right through him. "Why do you want me on your payroll so badly, Mr. Pierce?"

"Because you're a genius. You hacked my systems. Twice. I need you. Now that I know you're willing to work corporate, I must have you."

"And because Will has me."

"Yes. Exactly."

"I didn't hack your systems twice, Mr. Pierce."

"What?"

"You paid me to hack them twice. I've actually hacked them more than a dozen times."

Logan blinked. "Bullshit."

"All coders have a signature. A method, a style. Once I was up on yours, it wasn't that tough."

"You're lying."

She lifted her hand from her phone screen, tapped a single number, and held it out for him.

Logan Pierce looked at the data flying across the tiny screen, downloading faster than he could read it. But he knew what it was. He knew exactly what it was.

"How did you do this?" he demanded. He stood up, both terrified and deeply, deeply impressed. "How did you _do this_?"

"Like you said, I'm a genus." Christine Fitzgerald rose graciously to her feet. "I don't want to be your enemy, Mr. Pierce. If you want to join the CIREI board, if you want to contribute money and help Will and Julie build their windmills, terrific. You want to rehabilitate your civic reputation? Great. We can help you. You're welcome to help us fix the world a little.

"But understand this. If you harm Will, or any of his people, in any way – physically, financially, emotionally, socially – if you cause the slightest distress to anyone associated with this company, I will end you. I will find every single computer that you have ever tapped a key or run a code on, and I will turn it into a brink. And then I will slag the brick. Are we clear, Mr. Pierce?"

"Logan," he insisted faintly.

"Logan." She took her phone back, tapped a key, and the scrolling code vanished. "Oh, and one more thing. I am never, _ever,_ coming to work for you."

He swallowed hard. Blindsided, defenseless, utterly gobsmacked. And part of him loved it. "Will you marry me?"

Christine laughed. The hard steel in her eyes vanished. "You and me, Logan? I think we're going to be friends."

"We are?"

"Yes. Now that we understand each other, I think we'll get along just fine."

He looked around the empty lobby. He felt giddy. Idiot. _You wanted to hire her because she was brilliant. Why are you so surprised that she's brilliant?_ "Friends."

"Yes. Friends."

"But …"

"No."

"Will you tell me how you got in?"

"No."

"But …"

"But I won't do it again. Unless you piss me off."

"I, uh … well."

"You should probably go home now, Logan. You look a little tired."

"But I'll see you again."

"At the board meeting. First week of December."

He stared at her for a long moment. _Damn._ And also, _damn that Will Ingram has her. He doesn't have a damn clue what he has._ And then, _maybe that's best. Maybe I should thank all the stars that she doesn't have any interest in hacking and cracking for a living. That she's so loyal to him. Because holy shit, if she was still running the dark alleys of the web …_

"It's been a …" He stuck his hand out awkwardly.

"Pleasure to see you again, too." She shook his hand formally. "Good night, Logan."

Dismissed, and guessing that it was best to obey, Logan Pierce left.


	16. Chapter 16

Christine watched through the bay windows of the ballroom lobby as while Logan Pierce sped away in his painfully expensive sports car. Finch slid soundlessly to her side, but she was not startled when he spoke. "To think we saved that man's life once."

"Everyone makes mistakes."

He grunted. "You handled him very well."

"Thanks for the hack. He was startled."

"A little something I had on standby."

Christine continued to gaze out the window. The music from the ballroom washed gently around them.

"Actually," Finch mused, "he might not be a bad choice for you. He's certainly wealthy, and not bad-looking, in his way. Smart enough to keep you entertained, and foolish enough to bend to your will. He's not well-read, but he does have a certain creative instinct. He'd gladly fill the spotlight while you lurked in his shadow and did whatever you wanted." He nodded. "You could do much worse."

"And yet he interests me not at all." She looked at him. "I need a pallet cleanser. Come dance with me." She took his hand and started toward the ballroom.

Harold hesitated. "I was never any good at it," he explained, "even before …" He gestured to his leg.

Christine didn't argue. She simply slipped into his arms, there in the empty lobby. Harold smiled his agreement, put his other hand on her waist. She moved a little closer, her feet between his, and they danced slowly.

She seemed content in their silence. It was better, Finch thought. Far better than watching her dance with Logan Pierce. Pallet cleanser, indeed. It was exactly what he needed.

He wished, with a sudden, violent desperation, that they could stay right there, exactly as they were, forever. That time could simply stop and leave them, perfect in that moment when everything was right. Or even that he could die, quickly and unexpectedly, with this moment as the last in his life. He wanted the music to stop. He wanted everything to stop. This moment, before he spoke, before he ruined things.

And yet, almost against his will, words came to his tongue. Shakespeare, of course. "For my mind misgives some consequence yet hanging in the stars hall bitterly begin his fearful date with this night's revels, and expire the term of a despisèd life closed in my breast by some vile forfeit of untimely death."

Christine looked at him. Her blue eyes were calm and bright, unsurprised, and seeming to see through him as they often did. She knew the reference, of course, knew the play, the act, the scene. And she knew how that romance ended – with all the leads dead. "And so you would send me to Paris," she answered quietly.

Harold felt his breath catch. To Paris, yes. To Logan Pierce, who would be everything she needed and nothing she wanted. He'd thought of a hundred different ways to start this conversation, a thousand things to say, and a hundred reasons he shouldn't say anything at all. Yet there he was, speaking when he should have stayed silent, and opening with a clichéd quote. There was no point in his carefully-considered introductions to the topic now. He blundered ahead to the objections. "I'm old enough to be your father."

"You're not my father," Christine answered simply.

"I'm broken. Physically, emotionally …"

"Physically, I don't care. Emotionally – if you were not, you would not understand me at all."

"I cannot leave the Numbers."

"I would not ask you to." She studied him for a moment. "Do you want me to talk you into this, or talk you out of it?"

"I don't know," Finch admitted. He felt light-headed, giddy. Lost. "I don't know."

Christine moved closer and put her head on his shoulder. Their bodies moved together to the music from the other room. _If we could stay right here,_ Harold thought again, happy and mournful at the same time. _If we could be frozen in this moment, before it all goes wrong._ "I have no right," he finally said, "to put you at risk. Your safety, your freedom, your life. If you stay with me …"

She lifted her head to meet his eyes again. "You have no right," she agreed calmly. "My safety, my freedom, my life. _Mine._ And therefore my choice."

" _Christine …_ "

"No." Her voice was firm, but without heat. "Love me or don't, but don't decide because you think you need to protect me. I am not a child. My eyes are wide open. I know what this is, and I know how it will likely end. And if you want me, then I'll be with you until that end."

He stared at her, transfixed. He could feel his heart racing – or perhaps that was hers. They were so close that the two were indistinguishable. He was sharply aware of the warmth of her body through the fabric of his suit. Of the lovely contrast between the deep gold of her dress and the rich black of his sleeve. Of her scent, a soft undertone of lily-of-the-valley, an even more elusive hint of peppermint. Of the music, which stopped and then restarted, a new song with the same rhythm. Of the gentle give of the carpet beneath their feet. Of the lights that played across the wall as cars passed on the street below …

… of Christine watching him, patient, waiting. As she had waited since … he didn't even know how long she'd been waiting.

She'd decided before he had, Harold realized. Long before. She'd waited, watched, silent. Beside him in the library, in the safe house, in the streets. She'd waited. The sudden calm in her, the contentment. He'd seen it and thought it was because she'd come to terms with her father's death and the rest of her life. And partly, he supposed, that was true. But also …

She'd decided. On reflection, he knew _exactly_ when. The night he'd shown her the townhouse he'd shared with Grace. Sitting on the front steps. Christine has been silent for such a long time. Then she'd decided. She'd asked only one thing of him, extracted a single promise: That he would not fake his own death to her. Nothing more.

And she'd been waiting for him to make up his mind ever since.

 _Kiss her_ , he thought, _and claim her. It's that simple._

"But it's not that simple," he said aloud.

She smiled, very gently. "Of course it's not simple. We are damaged people. We bring enough baggage to fill a freight train. The world wants us dead. I have never been in love and you …"

"… can't stop loving someone else," Finch finished harshly, before she could say it in kinder terms. "As if everything else weren't enough, there is Grace."

"There will always be Grace," Christine answered, undisturbed. "You will always love her."

"And you can live with that?" he demanded.

"I am not Grace," she said, still maddeningly calm. "I am nothing like her and I never will be. And you know that. You know who I am. All my faults, all my … and yet you make room for me. Next to her." She touched the center of his chest lightly. "I consider myself in good company."

He wanted to argue with her. He wanted to tell her that she deserved more, that she deserved a man who would give her his entire heart, all of his love. He wanted to tell her not to sell herself short, not to settle for him. To demand more. To demand everything. And yet …

 _My eyes are wide open._

Christine was not Grace. Grace had accepted what he'd told her, loved the Harold he'd allowed her to know. She'd had been largely unaware of his secrets and untouched by darkness. She had been innocent, pure. Christine didn't know everything about Harold and she never would, but she knew so much more of the truth. She had no illusions. She knew enough to make an informed decision. _I know what this is, and I know how it will likely end_. And despite all that she knew, she was willing to be with him.

 _Kiss her and claim her,_ he thought again, _or else let her go and walk away._ He was keenly aware that both their futures depended on his decision, that their lives stood on the knife's edge of the next moment. He could see where each path would lead them, in the short term, but then the horizon curved and obscured his view. Down one path, and perhaps down both, might lay a bitter regret that he could not bear. This moment, he knew, was the one he would look back on, always. The one where, in despair, he would wish he had taken the other road.

He wanted to go back to the moment before, when there had only been music and Christine content in his arms.

 _Walk away. Kiss her hand, as you did that first night, and walk away. Let her live._

She read his answer in his eyes. She did not pull away from him. She moved closer, rested her head on his shoulder again.

Harold sighed quietly and held her tighter. It was the answer he'd expected from her, too, he realized. No rage, no argument. Not that she was incapable of fomenting either of those things; she most certainly was. But in this, she would accede to his wishes. She would accept his decision without putting any more distance between them. She would still be at the library, still on hand to help when needed. Still free for lunch at a moment's notice when his loneliness or boredom overcame him.

She would still love him, even if his fears kept them from being any closer.

She would let him decide, not because she was a helpless child, nor because she felt herself indebted to him, nor because she was his obedient apprentice, but because she understood the power of her own demons, and therefore the power of his.

Christine Fitzgerald would fight the whole world for him if he asked her to, but she would not ask him to fight against himself.

Harold blinked back tears. But her head was down; she did not see them. This was the right choice. For her future, for her life, he had to …

Reese's words, calm when he had every right to be furious, came back to him. _My life changed when I kept my mouth shut at an airport terminal seven years ago._

And suddenly Shakespeare was on Finch's tongue again, and he could not stop the words. "But he that hath the steerage of my course, direct my sail."

Christine looked up, surprised, puzzled. "On, lusty gentlemen?" she completed for him.

He chuckled, against his will. He'd half-forgotten that tag line. "I suppose," he said quietly, warmly. He leaned and brushed his lips over hers.

It was the lightest possible kiss, quick and chaste. Yet she trembled at the touch of his lips. He held her, steadied her. He kissed her again, a little firmer, a little longer.

Somewhere, remotely, he noted that the music played, that their bodies continued to sway lightly to it. But all the rest of his focus was on the tiny space between them, on the touch of her lips, the warmth of her breath, the absolutely bliss of having finally kissed her. "For to be wise, and love," he murmured, "exceeds man's might; that dwells with gods above."

Christine made a small happy noise and for the first time moved to him, returned his small kisses, mere brushing glances, playful. "You're mixing your plays," she whispered, "almost as much as you're mixing your signals."

"I was going to send you away," he admitted. "Apparently the Bard has other ideas."

"Always knew he'd come in handy someday." She shifted. Her hand slid out of his and up along his arm, to the back of his neck. He put his palm flat on the small of her back. The kisses lengthened; they stopped moving and retreating, and finally they stopped dancing altogether and truly kissed.

 _I never thought …_ Harold began, and then for a time thought vanished entirely.

The music stopped again. Reluctantly, Harold lifted his head. There were still questions in Christine's eyes. There was also fear. It was almost a relief to see it there, to know that he wasn't the only one. Of course she was afraid. She was too smart not to be. But she would push through her fear. She would stay with him.

"God pardon me," he said, quoting again, a different author from a different age, "and man meddle not with me: I have her, and will hold her."

Christine barely drew a breath. "There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no kindred to interfere."

"No, that is the best of it." He kissed her again, deeply. Now that he'd given in to that urge, he seemed to have no ability to stop. He did manage to murmur, "I do not, for the record, have a crazy wife hidden in the attic."

Her mouth curved against his. "Don't you?" She turned her head and glanced at the discrete surveillance camera in the corner of the ceiling. "But I would be well content to be your mistress."

"You shouldn't be," he protested. "You deserve more, you deserve a man who …"

"Shhh." She claimed his lips again, smothered his words with her kiss.

"… could give you his whole life …"

"What would I do with your whole life?"

"Anything you wanted …"

"You are everything I want. Exactly as you are."

He felt something burst inside him, soft and quiet, a mere bubble. Joy flooded through his veins, unexpected and heady and so sweet that it hurt where it touched. He could continue to argue with her; he probably would. It wouldn't make any difference. Christine had decided. _Exactly as he was._ There would be no changing her mind, or her heart. No jarring revelation, no tortured confession of past sins, would change anything. She knew. All of it. And she wanted him nonetheless. _Exactly as he was._

All that was left for him to do was accept. And he could argue with himself, too. There were a thousand arguments against it, all good and valid and solid.

None of them would change anything, either.

It was settled.

He kissed her again. This time they trembled as one.

When they parted, finally, he glanced up at the camera again. The red light blinked slowly, steadily. He felt suddenly very exposed. The doors were open. Anyone could come out of the ballroom or off the elevators. Anyone could be watching the monitor. If he were going to pursue this relationship, if he were going to put her life at risk, he could at least mitigate that risk as far as possible …

His mind churned through the possibilities. He was very aware of the pull, the temptation to simply be lost in her touch. And he could be, as soon as he got them somewhere safe. Her apartment. The library. Or a safe house, he must have a safe house nearby, somewhere. So damnably hard to remember where he owned real estate at a time like this …

And then he laughed at himself, out loud.

Because, of course, he owned a hotel. Specifically, he owned _this_ hotel.

"What?" Christine asked warily.

"When does your plane leave?"

She shrugged. "Eight, nine. Whenever we all get there."

Private jet, Harold thought, pleased. There were a dozen people going on this trip; it made sense to charter a jet. And more to the point, it made his immediate plans much less complicated. "Good. We can …" He stopped, aware that he abruptly ahead of the situation. That _asking_ was in order, rather than telling, and that he'd already stepped over any elegant approach to the request. "… that is, if you'd like, we could … see about the availability …" His face felt suddenly hot. "We could …"

"Yes," she said.

"… not to put it crudely … I'm sure there's some quote, but I can't …"

"Why not seize the pleasure at once?" Christine supplied easily. "How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!"

 _Jane Austen_ , he thought, and wondered why he hadn't thought of that one. He tried to gather his wits, and failed utterly because she leaned and kissed him again. "Yes," she repeated.

"Very well then." He smiled; his words were breathless, edged with softness. "Let's see what they have available, shall we?"

He turned, slid his arm around her waist, and they walked slowly toward the elevators. Just beyond was a short hallway with restrooms and two pay phones for ballroom patrons, plus a house phone. Finch paused, considering. They didn't have to go to the lobby. He could call the front desk, have a bellman meet them at the penthouse with a key …

One of the pay phones rang.

Harold flinched. Then he froze.

It rang again.

"No," he said curtly. He tightened his arm around Christine's waist.

The phone, of course, ignored him. It rang again.

"No," he said again. He half-turned and glared at the camera. "No. It's not fair. I get one night …"

The phone rang for the fourth time.

"She's not going to quit," Christine said quietly.

Harold looked at her. She was still calm, almost amused. Utterly unsurprised. When he thought about it, so was he. "I am so sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Don't even start. I told you, I knew what this was." She kissed him once more, briefly. Then she nodded toward the phone. "We can't make this work by trying to leave her out of it."

He sighed heavily and drew her with him as he went to answer the phone.


	17. Chapter 17

"I'm so glad you're here," Root said cheerfully. She tucked her hand under Shaw's elbow and steered their route around the perimeter of the courtyard. "I love the way the sun shines on your hair."

The agent gave her a side-eye glance. "Sure."

"I wish you could spend more time with me."

Shaw didn't bother to answer.

"What do you do all day, when you're not with me?"

"I work out. I eat. I see movies. I sleep in. I have sex." She shrugged. "I do whatever the hell I want."

"I bet you're bored."

"Nope."

Root tugged at her arm. "Oh, come on, you can tell me. I don't think they can hear us." She glanced up toward the camera that over looked the yard. "Wouldn't you rather be out on a mission? Causing mayhem, shooting people, having real adventures instead of just watching them on the screen?"

"Sure," Shaw answered without emotion.

"You're never go out on another mission, you know." Root giggled. "Not as long as I live. As long as I keep hacking for them, they are going to do whatever it takes to keep me happy. And what makes me happy, Shaw, is you."

"I'm touched."

"And that means," Root went on cheerfully, "that you're stuck in this holding pattern. You spend an hour a day with me and then you can do anything you like except the things you really like. You can't go on missions, you can't even leave town for a vacation. Not even a long weekend. You're stuck. Trapped. Just like I am."

"If you say so."

"You know it's true. And right now you're thinking, yeah, no big deal, I can sleep in, I can have a steak for supper, whatever."

"Pretty much."

"But imagine a year from now. Or five years, or ten years." Root tilted her head and smiled. "How are you going to feel then, Shaw? Your whole career spent doing nothing but keeping me company? I think that would suck."

"Ehh."

"And you know the worst Part?"

"Listening to you talk an hour a day?"

Root grinned at her flat joke. "Oh, you. No, the worst part is that they'll let me do anything I want with you. As long as they think I'm helping them, they'll do whatever I ask to get me to keep on helping. So if I said I wanted … I don't know, for you to shave your head for me, they'd make you do it. Or if I wanted you to wear a pink tutu."

Shaw smirked.

"If I said I wanted you to get a nose stud, they'd make you do it. Or get your nipples pierced."

"What makes you think I didn't already do that?"

Root turned and looked pointedly at her chest. "Not in that t-shirt, sister. And you're missing the point."

"Oh, did you have a point? I thought you were just babbling."

The prisoner grinned, delighted. "I _love_ your wit, Shaw. It is so dry. You act like you don't like me at all, but I can tell you really do. You're like me. Smart and tough and sick to death of being treated like you're not as capable as any man, when the truth is that you're _better_ than any man. We're alike."

"I thought you had some point you were getting to."

"The _point_ is that you're working for people who don't appreciate you. You're a soldier, and a good one, and yet these idiots pulled you out of the field and made you be a playmate for some chick they think is crazy. That's not right. That's not respectful. You're completely loyal to them, and they treat you like shit."

"So you're going to tell them to cut me lose."

"Oh, no." Root shifted her grip on Shaw's arm and continued their stroll around the courtyard. "You're the only bright spot in this whole nightmare. I can't live without you, Shaw. Your visits every day are the only thing I have to look forward to. Oh, no, I'm not going to let you go. And they're not going to let you go. And you're not going to go until they tell you to go, because you're such a good soldier. Dutiful. You're just as trapped as I am."

Shaw sighed. "So there really wasn't a point."

"I bet they'd let me do just about anything with you," Root mused. She bit her bottom lip. "I bet if I asked – if I insisted – they'd even bring me a big shiny dildo and let me have my way with you in my cell. Or even out here in the courtyard. I bet they'd order you to let me, and you'd follow your orders. Would you do that, Shaw?"

"I'd want to put a blanket down." Shaw gestured to the courtyard. "Concrete burn is a bitch."

Root squealed in delight. "Look at you! I talk about raping you in front of all these cameras and all your co-workers and you don't miss a beat! Damn, Shaw, you really are good."

"You have no idea."

"You're too good for them."

"Oh, is this the part where you try to turn me?"

"Isn't that obvious?"

"You took your sweet time getting to it."

"I have nothing _but_ time, Shaw."

"So how does this work? I help you escape and you give me, what, all the money in the world?"

"And your freedom from these insects who control you. And my undying affection."

"I'll just take the money, thanks."

"Really?"

"No," Shaw snorted. "You really are crazy. Even if I was inclined to help you escape, and even if I believed for a minute that you wouldn't try to kill me the minute you thought you were safe, they'd find us. You, they might drag back here and chain to a computer again. But me? They'd just kill me. And all the money in the world isn't worth shit to a corpse."

Root hugged her arm. "I already thought of all that, sweetie. I can teach you how to set up your own anonymous bank account. And then I can tell you how to transfer funds that I have tucked away into your account. You can have the money before you help me escape. Say, ten million for starts? Untraceable."

"What makes you think I won't just take the money and leave you here?"

"Because of the second part of what you said. You're right. If you try to leave, the Machine will tell them where you are and they'll drag you back here. So you can't leave without me. And there you'd be, ten million in the bank and still stuck here, visiting me an hour a day. No beach escape, no penthouse in the city – no way to spend the money."

"The what?"

"What?"

"You said the machine. What machine?"

"The surveillance machine. The computer that gives them all their information."

"Research."

"That's not its name."

"What's its name?"

"God. Its name is god."

"Right."

"I can't tell you any more. They'll kill you if they find out you know."

Shaw raised an eyebrow but didn't answer.

"And _anyhow_ ," Root went on blithely, "I have a solution to that part, too."

"I'm listening."

Root looked deliberately at the camera and then turned away, tucking her chin down close to Shaw's shoulder. "This chip they've got me decoding? It's not what I told them it is."

"Then what is it?"

"It's his mark. God's. If you have the chip he sees you, but he hides you. From -" she jerked her head toward the camera. "From all kinds of electronic surveillance. He knows you're his and he protects you. Whatever you do, he keeps the others from seeing."

"So it's not a key. It doesn't grant you access."

"It does. If you're close enough to the Machine, it's a log-in key. But no matter how far away you are, it's a fig leaf. It makes sense. Whoever built the Machine would want to hide from it."

"So how did Corwin get the chip?"

"By banging Nathan Ingram, of course."

"Ingram made the chip?"

For the first time Root's cheerfulness fell away. "Maybe. I don't know. It's not … who I thought it was. It's not his coding. It's cruder. But it will work. I think it will work."

"And you didn't tell Control about this."

Root grinned, her confidence returning. "I'm a very bad girl. Maybe you should spank me."

"Maybe I should tell her."

"You won't. You're already counting your money."

"I wouldn't say that."

"Anyhow – I can get this code, in my head, and then I'll give it to you and you can program it onto a chip, a chip for each of us, and then we can go and they'll never be able to find us."

"Just you and me."

"And ten million of my best friends."

"I thought the ten million was for me."

"You won't share?"

"If you're willing to give me ten million, you probably have ten times that much."

Root nodded. "See, I knew you were smart. You don't get much chance to show it, but you're smart. We'll be great together."

"No," Shaw said firmly, "we won't. If I go along with this plan – and I'm not for a minute saying I will – we get out, I get my money, and then I never want to see your psycho ass again."

"Again? You're never seen my psycho ass. It's really cute."

"I have, and it's not that cute."

"But we could be so good together. Look, I get it, you don't think you're into girls, but I promise, I'm not like other girls. I can show you so many things. I'm very creative."

"No."

"You'll change your mind."

"No, I won't."

"Give me a week. I'll change your mind."

Shaw looked at her dourly.

"Thirty-six hours. You, me, a big bed, room service, a few toys. I promise we'll have a good time."

"Root."

"Two hours at a Motel 6?"

"You can hide us. From all the cameras. Everywhere."

"Everywhere."

"What about other kinds of surveillance?"

"Shaw. You already know how to get around those."

"Hmmm."

"Does 'hmmm' mean yes?"

"It means maybe I'm thinking about it. But not very hard, because you're a psycho and I don't think I believe you."

Root patted her arm. "You think about it, Shaw. Think about it tonight, when you're sleeping in that big lonely bed all alone."

Shaw snorted. "You wish."

"And tomorrow, when you hear your comrades are going on some cool new mission and you're still stuck here with me, for the rest of your life."

"For the rest of _your_ life, Root."

"Fair enough. But you'll think about it."

"Our time's up." Shaw pulled her arm free and strode toward the door.

"Promise me you'll think about it, Shaw!" Root called after her.

Shaw didn't bother to turn. She flashed a middle finger over her shoulder and kept walking.

* * *

"Finch, calm down."

Finch ignored him. "It's only been eight hours," he said urgently. "Their plane hasn't even landed yet and I have _lost_ one of them!"

"Did you leave the door open?" John asked logically. "While you were bringing in your bags?"

"No. I brought my things over earlier. I saw both of them when I got here this morning. Then I took a shower and a nap, and now he's just – gone!"

"We'll find him."

"Christine will be so upset … she entrusted me with their care. But I've looked _everywhere_ …"

"Finch. He's here somewhere. We'll find him." John reached down and snapped Bear's leash off. "How 'bout it, boy? Where's the kitty?"

" _Such_!" Finch ordered.

The dog looked at them and wagged his tail. Then he trotted down the hall to the master bedroom. The men followed.

One half-grown black cat was curled into a loose ball at the foot of the bed. Bear prodded her with his nose and she opened her green eyes, yawned, and batted at him without claws.

"I knew where _she_ was," Finch complained. "It's her brother that's gone missing."

John fought back a grin. If the cat hadn't escaped the apartment, then he was here somewhere. He could think of a thousand hiding places he might be. The fact that three pounds of fur could agitate Finch so badly was more than a little entertaining. But Harold was clearly in no mood to be teased. "Where's your other friend, Bear? Find the other kitty."

Bear looked at him quizzically. Then he poked his head under the bed.

"I _looked_ there," Finch complained.

"Give him a minute."

Bear came out from under the bed and went to check the bathroom.

"I looked there, too."

"Stay out of that cat food."

The dog emerged from the bathroom, wagged his tail in chagrin, and sniffed his way back to the hallway. The men followed again.

"The kitten's scent it all over the apartment," Reese said, watching Bear search the office. "This could take a while."

Harold made a _noise_ , half frustration and half despair, that John had only previously heard him make at particularly stubborn bits of software. "Finch. Calm _down_."

"You don't understand."

The dog moved to the living room and stuck his snout under the couch. Reese tipped the couch forward to they could both get a good look. There was no kitten. He set the couch back down.

The dog stared up at the bookshelves. Reese scanned them. Every shelf was completely jammed with books, but there was space on top of them that an ornery back cat might wedge himself into. And possibly there was space behind the books as well.

"I already looked there, too," Finch said sadly.

" _Such_ ," John prompted.

They followed the dog to the guest bedroom.

The bed was made but slightly rumpled. Finch's pajamas – pale blue with navy stripes – were neatly folded at the foot of the bed. There was a book and a half-full glass of water on the bedside table. All of Finch's other belongings were, presumably, neatly put away.

He'd woken up in that bed, several months before, with Christine sleeping at his side. "I don't like bananas," he mused.

"What?"

"That night. She kept feeding me bananas."

"For the potassium, I suppose."

Reese nodded. He still didn't have a complete memory of the night Chaos had burned to the ground. He knew that Root had poisoned him. He knew that he'd hallucinated, vividly and sometimes violently, for hours. He knew that Christine had kept him safe, and kept him from harming anyone else.

Almost.

He knew that he'd hit Harold. Hard. Hard enough to leave a deep bruise. Potentially hard enough …

"You should know," Finch said calmly, "that there's been a … change … in our relationship."

Reese raised an eyebrow. "Ours?"

"Mine, with Miss … with Christine."

"Oh." John was completely aware that Finch had spoken up to distract him from his memories. He was deeply grateful. "How so?"

Harold watched the dog explore the room. His cheeks went pink. "We've … it's … progressed, I suppose you could say. At least, I would say … I'm not sure how you might … that is …"

If he'd been less grateful for the distraction, Joh might have let the genius struggle a while more. As it was, he let him off the hook. "You finally get around to kissing my sister, Finch?"

"I … yes." His blush became undeniable.

"Took you long enough."

"You aren't surprised, then."

Reese tried, not very hard, to keep the corners of his mouth from quirking up. "No."

"And you don't … object."

 _Ahhhhh._ John was surprised, and touched, that his opinion apparently weighed so heavily with his friend. "She knows what she's getting into."

Finch looked away. "She thinks she does."

"Harold. She knows."

Bear scooted between them and crossed the hall again. He stopped outside the door of the empty storage space and looked at them expectantly.

"Were you in here?" John asked.

"Briefly," Finch admitted. "I brought some more books."

Reese opened the door and Bear scrambled in.

The unfinished space was twice the size of John's squalid first apartment in the city. There was a battered table and a scattering of folding chairs; Taylor Carter sometimes held Dungeons and Dragons games there. Near the door were six middle-sized cardboard boxes, rather battered and bearing international shipping labels, in two stacks. On top of one stack were a dozen loose books.

Bear circled briefly, then tried to wedge himself in between the boxes and the wall.

"Is he in there, boy?"

The dog barked, just once.

John got one foot behind the first stack and tried to push them out. They were surprisingly heavy and didn't budge. He bent and moved them one at a time.

Bear stuck his nose into a narrow space where the bare pine floorboard didn't quite meet the inner wall.

"In there?"

The dog barked again.

"Oh, dear," Harold fussed. "What if he's stuck?"

"One problem at a time." Reese dropped to the floor and eased his hand into the opening. It barely fit. He bent his wrist and felt a smooth curve of metal. Water pipe. He stretched his fingers out, and felt a bare touch of warm fur behind the pipe. "Got him."

"Oh, thank goodness."

John tried to reach, but his forearm would not go any further into the gap. "Damn." He drew his hand back. "I've got a pry bar in the basement."

"Let me try." Finch stripped off his jacket and clambered down to the floor. He slipped off his watch and handed it to Reese, then slid his hand into the hole.

Reese studied the watch. Rolex, of course, gold, with a single diamond, rather plain and old. He turned it over, but there was no engraving. The inside of the band was worn smooth.

'I can't quite …" Finch shifted, reached further.

"When did you kiss her?"

"Hmmm?" Finch squinted up at him. "Oh. Last night. Just before the phone rang."

John frowned. "I could have handled Marion Cooper on my own …"

"No."

"… you could have stayed with her."

"No, John," Harold said firmly. He made a little gasping sound and then began, very slowly, to withdraw his arm. "I appreciate the impulse, but it's out of the question." Hs wrist cleared the opening, but his hand, and the bundle of black fur it held, was still trapped under the floorboard. He twisted his arm, trying to maneuver the kitten out of the hole. The little cat mewed, and Bear danced in concern.

Reese managed to grab the kitten by the scruff of his neck, allowing Finch to withdraw his hand, and between them they managed to extract young Puck.

Finch sat up, rested his back against the wall, and inspected the kitten He brushed cobwebs from his dark fur with the other. "Well. You don't seem any worse for the wear."

Bear whined again, and Finch released the kitten to his care. The two of them scurried out of the room.

"Well. I take some comfort in knowing that I would not have found him _there_ without assistance."

"I'll block that hole up," Reese said. "And check for others."

"Just put one of those boxes over it for the moment." Finch struggled to his feet. He brushed off his pants and retrieved his jacket.

"Books?" John guessed, moving the box as directed.

"From Ireland, yes."

"She needs more shelves."

"She does, yes." Finch put his jacket back on. "Miss … Christine insists, and I agree, that the Numbers must always come first. That is not negotiable. If anything were to happen to you –"

"Knew the job was dangerous when I took it."

"– because I allowed myself to become distracted, neither of us could ever forgive ourselves."

John handed his watch back. "You could walk away, Harold. You could have a life. A real life."

"So could you, John."

"I've made my choice."

"So have I. And so has Christine." Finch looked around the empty room. "In any case, I do appreciate your … support. I'm not sure I would … dare … if it were not for you."

"Well, you're a little old for her," Reese allowed, "but I hear you have pretty good prospects. And I know you'll treat her right."

"I won't. I'll neglect her. I'll take her for granted. And I'll almost certainly die unexpectedly and leave her alone." He smirked. "Extremely wealthy, of course, but – "

"She won't be alone."

Finch sighed. "I know. I know. And that makes it … easier to tell myself that this is a good idea." His gaze shifted to the boxes of books. "In any case, this trip will give her one last chance to change her mind."

"She won't change her mind."

Finch looked at him.

"She's had plenty of time to think about it. If she was going to change her mind, she'd have done it already."

"How long," Finch asked slowly, "have you known?"

John laughed. He'd seen it coming months before, maybe years; it had only been a question of when. That Mr. I-Know-Exactly-Everything hadn't known was sweetly ironic. "Longer than you have, apparently."

"I see."

"I'll look around, see if there are any more cat traps in here."

"In a month or two it won't matter. He'll be too big to get under the floorboards."

Reese picked up a box and hailed it over to a second opening he'd spotted. "He'll be big enough to get good and stuck."

"Hmmm."

John paced the perimeter of the room and found three more gaps big enough for the kitten to get into. He blocked each of them with a box of books. "I think that's got it."

Finch did not answer. Reese turned. His partner was motionless, staring across the empty space, completely transfixed by whatever he was seeing in his mind. "Harold?"

"She needs more bookshelves."

"Yeah. We covered that."

Harold turned suddenly and met his gaze. "Mr. Reese, I believe I am about to do something very rash."

 _More rash than falling in love again?_ John looked around the room. The vast space. The bare walls. The raw pine floor. The big windows. The boxes of books, with no shelves to hold them.

One of Finch's libraries was going to be gutted. All those old oak shelves. All those beautiful floorboards.

"Likely to disturb the neighbors," he quipped gently.

Harold nodded thoughtfully. "I'll need to talk to Julie." He looked at Reese again. "I shouldn't do this. You'd tell me, wouldn't you? If I shouldn't do this?"

 _Uncertain Harold_. John didn't see him very often. He had the feeling he'd be seeing more of him now that he was in love.

Now that he'd _admitted_ he was in love.

"You shouldn't do this," John told him firmly. Then he grinned, because they both knew damn well they were going to do it anyhow. "Let's go talk to Julie."


End file.
